


bewitchment

by PinkHydrangea



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, happy halloween have a witch!au, kinda horror-ish??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-01-09 03:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12267603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkHydrangea/pseuds/PinkHydrangea
Summary: "Those would be witches. They are women who have offered their wills and souls to Rigel's patron god, Duma. Little of who they are remains."Turning to the Rigelian Plains before Fear Mountain results in a terrible fate for Nuibaba's prisoner. Having become little more than a pawn to crush the Deliverance, she forgets who she is. Her lover desperately tries to bring back her humanity, but he quickly becomes uncertain if there is anything to bring back at all.





	1. prologue: light-headed

**Author's Note:**

> so basically if you so much as look at the Rigelian Plains in SoV, Tatiana mysteriously disappears from Nuibaba's dungeon. doesn't matter if you've fought and killed Zeke or not. it's heavily implied that Nuibaba sacrifices her in some way, so obviously, My City Now
> 
> in any case, this is darker than what i normally write, but shouldn't be unbearable. i just wanted to go a little Spooky for Halloween and i've been rolling a witch!au around my head for a while, please enjoy!!

In the looking orb perched on her desk, Nuibaba sees the Zofian army turning towards the Rigelian Plains. That leader boy is stubborn, she admits that, with not even an illusion of the one in his heart able to sway him from his path. She figures that it’s no skin off her back—she’ll get them at another point. If she doesn’t at least put on a show of trying to pursue them, Jedah will have her head. That fool only needs to think she is hunting them for his and Duma’s sake. By the time she has the boy in her grasp, she’ll be too powerful for them to stop.

It’s good that they’re headed for the Rigelian Plains, she muses. Jerome’s underling there—the tall, handsome knight who washed up from seemingly nowhere—is a nuisance, and they’ll take care of him easily. The insufferable man has a sense of chivalry and a moral code too strong for his own good. Stop taking from the villages, he says. Stop sacrificing young girls for eternal youth and beauty, he says.

What a nag.

Nuibaba rubs the back of her neck and sighs, and then pulls her hand back to look at it. She grimaces at the signs of age on her wrist, the jutting bones and shriveled veins. If she looks closely, she can even see the beginnings some age spots, and she almost heaves at the mere sight of them. She searches her quarters, overturning tomes and bottles of various things, and she sees some vials of blood, some minced pieces of heart, even a couple of eyeballs.

In here, she’s got lots of pieces of girls to keep her beautiful.

But, the pretty little morsel she really wants is downstairs, locked away like a storybook princess, waiting for her gallant knight to come and rescue her.

Nuibaba sighs, checks the looking orb one last time to make sure they’re really on their way to the Plains, and smiles when she sees them trudging across the moors.

Ezekiel is as good as dead this way, and a dead man has no need for a lover.

The witch hums as she leaves her quarters and walks through her abode. The servants in her path scurry out of the way when she gets close. Nuibaba pulls at the skin on her face while she walks, frowning at how loose and limp it is, and wonders how many years the little cleric girl will put back on her. Ten? Twenty? Maybe thirty? What Nuibaba wouldn’t give to look that girl’s age again. A healthy 21, with glowing skin and bright eyes, luscious hair and pretty lips, and those pert curves, most especially.

The girl is getting the most luxurious of treatments, if Nuibaba says so herself. She gets her own private dungeon, locked away from the rest of her victims so that she doesn’t have to hear them screaming. Sure, she doesn’t give the girl more than one meal a day, and only lets her bathe once every other week, but no screaming? Not having to hear other girls, begging for their lives? What a treat!

The girl should be grateful, but she is as hostile as a wild animal whenever Nuibaba comes to gaze upon her beauty. She bites when she puts her fingers close, spits at her feet, and curses up a storm when Nuibaba will stay and listen. Nuibaba has been observing this specimen for years, and knows that this is out of the ordinary behavior, and it delights her.

This is the fear that she has driven perhaps the sweetest girl in Rigel to.

Nuibaba opens the door to the dungeon with a snap of her fingers, and sweeps up her skirts in her hands to keep them from dusting the musty floors. She makes her descent down the staircase, humming a happy little song—she wonders what kind of wine she could pair with this little girl—and smiles when the cell comes into view.

Tatiana is curled up in the corner, her hands folded together in prayer. Despite being filthy and starved, she is still as beautiful as a summer rose under the grime, and looks descended from the heavens themselves as she prays. Nuibaba can see how she easily captured the heart of that gods-forsaken man, and just how she has him wrapped around her sweet little finger. She can see why the very thought of the girl getting even a papercut gets him in a whirlwind of panic, and is amused by it.

A man will always go to war for a pretty woman, and even a soldier of Ezekiel’s caliber is no exception.

How _cute._

“Tatiana!” Nuibaba calls as she comes down the stairs. “Come here, come see me.”

The saint stops her praying, her peaceful expression scrunching into one of displeasure. She puts her folded hands into her lap, taking a deep sigh. “Good evening, Nuibaba. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Sickeningly, mockingly polite, as always. It gets on her nerves, and Nuibaba bares her teeth as she gets to the floor. “Watch your smart little tongue, girlie.”

Tatiana looks away. “As you say, my lady.”

“Enough with the sarcasm,” the witch spits. “I don’t have to tolerate it anymore.”

The girl snaps her head over to Nuibaba, her dirty curls and waves fluttering through the air, and her eyes shine with hope. “Is my Ezekiel here? Is- is it all over? Do I get to go home?”

“Your Ezekiel is dead.”

Tatiana freezes. Nuibaba can see what little color she has left drain from her face.

“Well, not yet,” Nuibaba muses, tugging a piece of hair between two fingers. “But, the Deliverance is on their way to fight him now. Strong as your hunk of man is, I don’t think even he can escape that.”

“Oh.” Tatiana swallows and looks to the floor, and Nuibaba is delighted to see the tears building in her eyes. She puts her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking slightly.

“Don’t cry like that,” Nuibaba chides, and she smiles. “You don’t have to live without him.”

Tatiana lifts her tear-stained face from her hands, giving Nuibaba a wary glance. “You’re going to eat me.”

It’s said matter-of-factly, not with a hint of horror or questioning, and Nuibaba is thrilled. At this point, girls are usually wailing, kicking and screaming, grasping at the other morsels in the cage and begging for help and mercy. It’s interesting to see a girl as gentle and delicate as Tatiana prove herself more courageous than them. The little girl is prone to tears, she knows that much, and over the silliest of things. But now, she only cries over a single man, and not her life.

“Get up,” Nuibaba says. “Come over here, or I’ll force you. And I know you don’t like it when I hex you to do things.”

Tatiana narrows her eyes, wipes her tears away, and picks herself up off the ground. Her clothes are a mess: A ragged dress which carries signs of what was once beautiful embroidery, but is now ripped out and faded. The hem is in tatters, along with the edges of the sleeves. Coupled with the dirt on her skin and under her nails, and the ragged state of her hair, the poor girl looks like a walking glob of filth.

Perhaps, Nuibaba thinks, she’ll give her a bath.

The door of the cell swings open with a snap of her fingers, and Tatiana squeaks faintly as Nuibaba grabs her. She doesn’t protest, doesn’t drag her heels while she is pulled up the stairs, but does ask in a wavering voice, “What are you going to do with me?”

“A fine question,” Nuibaba muses. “Perhaps, seeing as you are a cleric in Duma’s service, I’ll let him have his way with your soul.”

A sob escapes the child, and Nuibaba smiles. She has never sacrificed a girl to Duma before; only ever to monsters and demons and her own matron Medusa, but there’s a first time for everything. Jedah will be exceedingly pleased, and perhaps further convinced of her “loyalty” if she offers him a witch, made by his own master.

“I’ll feed you to Duma, and then, once this war is over and we no longer need all these extra witches, I’ll rip out your heart.” Nuibaba laughs, and her stomach rumbles a little at the thought. “They’re better fresh, but an organ is an organ! I’ll roast it a little, maybe season it with a little rosemary. I wonder what wine you would pair well with. Thoughts?”

Tatiana is silent, but Nuibaba feels her shaking as she is taken through the hallways of the mansion.

“A rosé?” Nuibaba says. “I think that’s a good idea as well! What a delicious dinner that will make.”

Nuibaba has a variety of rooms that she uses for her sacrifices, and she takes Tatiana past them all. She has a room with a burning altar, where she burns girls alive. She has a room filled with thick, heavy soil, where she buries and suffocates them. There’s a room where she takes the ones she doesn’t want to witch, where she slits them open and consumes them while they’re fresh and warm. The room she wants today, however, is one she doesn’t use too often.

But oh, it is fun.

She opens the door, humming and sighing as she takes in the humid smell of warm water. She pulls Tatiana in, and is surprised that the girl still isn’t sobbing and begging. She was pleased before, but now it’s somewhat taking all of the fun out of it. She wants Tatiana to cry at the sight of the large, marble-stone pool. She wants her to weep at the ball and chain, waiting to be clamped around her wrists. She wants her to sob at how surprisingly ordinary it all looks, with not a little bit of fire or a torture device in sight, but no dice.

“You’re braver than I thought,” Nuibaba says as she shuts the door.

Tatiana swallows and smiles a little, a shaking grin. “I’m terrified. I just don’t want to give you the satisfaction of my screaming.”

Cheeky little brat.

“Well, come in. Take off your clothes,” Nuibaba says. “I’m of the knowledge that you like water.”

Tatiana doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t move to strip.

Nuibaba scowls, shouts, “Take off your clothes!,” and the demand rings through the silent room. The water quivers under the weight of her voice.

Tatiana flinches and pulls the rags over her head, and immediately covers herself when she’s in the nude. She’s dirty, pale from her long weeks in the windowless dungeon, skinny as a rail from lack of food, yet still a rather good sight. Her hips have a gentle curve, and Nuibaba imagines they would be perfectly shaped, if she’d had a few good meals any time recently. Her chest, hidden beneath her scrawny arms, is nothing to sneer at either. The girl shrinks under Nuibaba’s gaze, staring at the ground in shame.

“Why the shyness?” she croons, and then smiles. “Oh, I see. Your sweet Ezekiel is the only one who gets to enjoy this sight, isn’t he?”

Tatiana shuts her eyes as Nuibaba circles her, tensing up as the witch runs her fingers along her bare skin.

“Yes, I can see how he would enjoy this. If we got you back to a healthier weight, I imagine you would be simply, _deliciously_ divine.” Nuibaba drums her fingers as she curls them around Tatiana’s waist and puts her mouth next to her ear. “Tell me, where does he like to touch you? I’m curious to know if he knows how to pleasure a lady, or if he’s all talk.”

She shows a sudden fit of rage, and pushes Nuibaba away. Her burst of anger is amusing, and Nuibaba laughs at the tears sparkling in the cleric’s eyes. She walks past her to the ball and chains, grinning as she takes in the sight.  Tatiana looks absolutely pathetic, desperately trying to cover her naked body, her hair greasy and matted as it hangs around her, and dirt and oil caked on her skin.

“How the beautiful have fallen,” Nuibaba muses to herself. “Now, over here. I just have to put these on you.”

She lifts the chains up, shaking them towards Tatiana, and the girl weakly makes her way over.

“Lower your arms, no need for modesty. I’m going to need those pretty little wrists of yours anyway.”

Tatiana glares at her, then does as told. She shoves her wrists out at Nuibaba, staring at the other side of the room, and shakes violently as the witch clamps the cuffs down on her. It takes only a little press of magic to lock them, and only a little more to lighten the weight of the metal balls. They drag along the floor as Nuibaba shoves her to the edge of the pool, and they both stare at their reflections in the water.

“Don’t you worry,” she croons. “You’re going to be useful now. Not a sniveling little homebody like you were before. Father Duma will grant you endless power.”

Nuibaba watches, curious, as the lips of Tatiana’s reflection turn up into a quivering smile, and is utterly baffled when she giggles.

“Tell me what amuses you,” she demands.

“Father Duma wouldn’t have wanted this,” Tatiana whispers, and she shakes her head. “Not the Duma I worship. Not the one that you all corrupted with your wicked ways. Father wants his children to seek out their own strength, not to have it handed to them. The Father I know, deep down under all the corruption… I am in his hands.”

Nuibaba narrows her eyes.

Tatiana turns her head, fixing Nuibaba under a smoldering, burning gaze, as hot as a blue flame. “You blasphemous _heathen!”_

Nuibaba scowls, smacks Tatiana on the back, watching as she falls into the water with a splash. A snap of her fingers makes the metal balls unspeakably heavy once more; the girl sinks deeper and deeper. Nuibaba watches the stream of bubbles flood to the surface, and smiles when they stop coming.

* * *

Warm, clean water fills Zeke’s nose and mouth, and he chokes as he tries to take in a breath. His eyes sting when he opens them, but they adjust quickly. Above him he can see the surface of the water, light shimmering over the ripples, and struggles towards it. Yet, he finds a weight holding him back, and looks down in panic. Around his wrist are metal cuffs, chains floating around them. Lolling at the bottom of each chain is a heavy iron ball that doesn't budge when Zeke pulls. He grimaces, his chest starting to burn, and tugs at the chains frantically.

The surface is such a short ways away. Oxygen is just _there,_ right in reach, and he feels close to bursting as he strains for it. His body is crying out, begging him to open his lungs and inhale, but he fights the urge and continues to struggle against the ball and chain.

Zeke cannot take it anymore, and he gasps. Water floods him instantly, burning through his nostrils and lungs, and he heaves at the feeling. The balls don’t move an inch, no matter how he pulls and moves. He coughs, a stream of bubbles leaving his mouth.

The burn is fading, and he starts to feel light-headed. His limbs feel fuzzy, and his fingers convulse around the chains as he loses focus. He tilts his head back, and the lights above seem further than they were before by whole miles. Zeke struggles to focus on them, tries to reach his fingers up to the gleam, but is stopped by the chains.

He feels tired. His arm falls limp at his side. He decides it is better to close his eyes, take a long sleep, and so he does.

* * *

Zeke wakes up choking, but not on water. He wakes up choking on shock and fear, and coughs, a hand pressed to his chest, as he realizes he isn't underwater. He takes a heaving swallow, glancing around and finding that he is in his quarters. It's just before dawn, and shallow moonlight gleams on his scant amount of things.

He is dripping with sweat and grimaces as he pulls droplets of it from his forehead. His fingers race back, tugging through his golden locks. Zeke takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes as the panic of the nightmare dies, and falls back against the pillow.

For a moment, he can almost feel the soft fingers racing up over his chest, reaching to pull his bangs out of his face. He can almost feel the lips pressed against his jaw, easing away the fear and worry. Most of all, he can almost hear the voice, sleepy and soothing, asking, “What's wrong, dear?”

It's so vivid and real for a brief second that his eyes fly open and he reaches for the space next to him. His hand meets only sheets and pillows, and he sees nothing but the same. Zeke swallows, squeezing his eyes shut, and drags his hands down his face. He's in the living quarters at the army base anyway, and doesn't know why he would even begin to imagine Tatiana here with him.

He takes a deep sigh, takes one more glance around the despairingly empty room, and closes his eyes.

Zeke hopes he doesn't dream of drowning again. He has before, considering the circumstances under which he was found, but never had he done so like this. Never has there been a weight around his wrists, and never has the water been so fresh and clean. It has never been like that, and he wonders what made it so.


	2. a red ribbon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please enjoy this chapter!!

A blonde wench skewers Nuibaba on the end of her spear, and that is that.

All of her cantors and arcanists, every one of her Terrors and witches, are strewn around her, lifeless. There are piles of ash and bone lying about, overturned cauldrons, fading runes etched into the carpets, and Nuibaba realizes, she has lost. She has lost utterly and completely, when she was so close to immortality.

She sees the Branded boy walking up to her, sheathing his sword and looking down with what she might think is pity. Blood bubbles out of her lungs, foaming at her lips, and she glares up at him in defiance.

“Coming back here was a waste of time,” he says, but the way he says it is sad, not angry. “We were so close to the Plains, and then, it was just too much for me. But you never had Celica. Only a dozen other girls.”

“Dead now,” Nuibaba chokes out, and she grins. “I ki-killed them all… When you got… close!”

The Branded boy narrows his eyes. “And even the power you received from their sacrifice wasn’t enough to help you stop us.”

Her grin turns down into a scowl, and she coughs up a wad of congealed blood. Red starts rushing down her nose, dripping over her cheeks in her prone position, and she doesn’t know what to say. Nuibaba has no smart, cheeky response, no ace up her sleeve, no nothing. She’s got nothing left. She hasn’t got so much as a single witch left to summon to her.

Well, she’s got that one… Fresh and new to her power, but she wouldn’t come if Nuibaba called her. She is in the possession of someone other than Nuibaba, a puppet to Duma instead of her. At least, she thinks, at least she got a hold of that youth she provided. At least she is dying, young and beautiful, even if she doesn’t have immortality.

But immortality is standing above her. It’s so close.

Nuibaba reaches out with a trembling hand, baring her teeth, and weakly takes hold of the Branded boy’s ankle. There’s a little bit of his calve not covered by armor, and even if she has to bite through his clothing, maybe she can-

He moves out of her weak grip easily, staring down at her with disgust. She reaches out again, gasping and heaving as her chest closes up and blood starts flooding out of her wound at a faster pace. She only wants a bite. Just a bite. Just a taste of immortality, a life without fear or pain. Just a nibble. Just a lick.

Nuibaba swallows a mouthful of blood, wheezes, and her hand falls limp.

* * *

Alm stares down at the witch as the last of her life fades from her eyes. Her hand is still outstretched towards him, her fingers curled in a clawlike grip even in death, and he swallows.

“Are you alright, Alm?” Faye asks. “She didn’t get a bite of you, did she?”

A shudder rips up his spine, but he shakes it off and smiles over his shoulder at her. “Yeah, I’m fine. Mathilda did her in pretty well, so there was nothing to worry about. But still, when people said she 'ate' girls, I thought they meant their souls.”

“It seems Nuibaba was an actual cannibal,” Lukas muses as he looks at the witch. Gingerly, he puts a finger to her mouth and pulls her lips aside, revealing sharp canines and back teeth. “Or, maybe not. I don’t think she was human anymore. Nothing but a cold-blooded demon, desperately grasping at eternal life.”

“We couldn’t save those poor girls.” Clair walks up behind Alm, dusting her dress free of Bonewalker particles. “There are at least a dozen of them, freshly dead, in the dungeons. Forsyth and Clive are taking note of their appearances now, in case we come across any distraught families.”

“Oh, Mila,” Alm mutters. He takes a long step back from Nuibaba and accidentally bumps into Faye, who steadies him. “Maybe if we hadn’t come back– I-if I hadn’t been tricked, maybe they’d still be alive.”

Lukas shakes his head and stands, wiping his finger on his trousers to get rid of the witch’s blood and saliva. “Nuibaba would have eaten them for power anyway. She seemed fixated on consuming you. Even if we hadn’t come back, she’d have pursued us at a point.”

“There was nothing we could have done?” Alm asks quietly. His stomach is churning, and he feels ill.

Clair frowns. “Absolutely nothing, you sweet boy. I wish I could tell you something like ‘their deaths were quick and painless,’ but, well… I don’t think any death here is.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Python pokes his head in from down the hall. “She means this. Come take a look.”

Walking through the mansion sends chills up and down Alm’s spine, but he tries to not show it. Even though every chandelier looks to be made of human finger bones, he tries to swallow down the bile and stand tall and steady. There are soldiers searching the rooms for supplies and spoils, and he’s sure they don’t want to see their glorious leader puking his guts out into a musty old cauldron.

“What’s behind door number one?” Python asks, but there’s no mirth in his voice. He puts his hand on a doorknob, turns it, throws it open, and Alm winces at what’s inside.

“Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” Faye repeats.

“Oh my,” Clair finishes.

The room is filled with soil and wooden boxes, and there are a few shovels propped up in the corner. The intent of the place is obvious, and it’s not a graveyard, that’s for sure.

“I wonder how many poor girls got buried alive in here,” Python mutters.

“I don’t want to wonder,” Alm replies. “Th-there are more rooms like this?”

He narrows his eyes, shuts the door, and they keep walking. “This whole damn hallway is one big gallon of nightmare fuel. Look at this.”

He swings the next door open, and there’s a pyre filled with brittle, chipped wood, perfect for burning. An unpleasant scent lingers in the room, like overcooked meat, and Alm is certain that this isn’t some sort of big barbeque pit.

“Shut the door,” Clair begs. “Python, please!”

He does as asked, and starts pointing at other rooms. “Electrocution, bleeding, torture, some sort of psychological hell chamber. Nuibaba really had a twisted mind.”

Faye excuses herself, rushing for one of the musty cauldrons, and Alm is tempted to follow right behind.

Python heads to the door right next to the burning room and opens it, despite Clair’s begging. “This room seemed fairly normal, and then we saw the chains.”

Alm nervously pokes his head in, and is surprised to find that it is, in fact, seemingly normal. It looks like a bathing room, or an indoor swimming area, like something he saw at the Zofian castle. It’s large, made of marble and a few other stone materials, and the water looks peaceful and calm. The room is slightly humid, speaking to the water’s temperature, and it actually looks like a nice place to relax.

And then, Alm sees the ball and chains, and his heart plummets.

“Drowning,” Clair whispers. “How awful. How simply awful!”

Alm sees a scrappy dress on the floor, swallows, and figures that the last victim probably wasn’t too long ago.

* * *

The young woman stumbles through the forest, shivering and shaking, and hugs herself as she gets her bearings. The only thing she remembers is waking up on some table, hearing crashing and banging and screaming, and she had fled out an open window. It had led into a forest, and here she is. Plain and simple.

She doesn’t have clothes. She wonders if she needs clothes. She probably doesn’t, if she didn’t have them on when she woke up. It’s okay. She shouldn’t worry about it. But still, it’s kinda cold, and she’s a little wet. She doesn’t know why. She shouldn’t worry about it. Everything is okay. She should just keep walking.

Dirt and decaying wood are sticking to her feet, but she doesn’t care. An owl swoops over her head, but she frowns at it and it flies away. She accidentally steps on a snake while walking, and it bites her, but it doesn’t hurt. She only stomps on it harder and watches as it slithers off.

The young woman starts humming while she walks, and she stares up at the moon. It glows, yellow and shimmery, and she stops to give it a long, hard look. She doesn’t know exactly _why_ she does, and it shouldn’t have any meaning, but she just thinks it’s really pretty tonight.

“Oh.”

A voice, and she looks down from the sky. A man is in front of her, dressed in really fancy robes, and his skin is a frigid blue, of all colors. Then again, when the young woman looks down at her hands, she’s purple. Maybe people are just blue and purple, and she just forgot. That’s okay.

The man looks her up and down, and then tilts her head. “One of Nuibaba’s?”

The name itches in the back of her head, but the young woman doesn’t know what that means. She shakes her head in response.

“But you’re a witch,” he mumbles, seemingly to himself. “Why in the world do you have no clothes on?”

She shrugs.

“I’m not really complaining,” he continues, and he looks her up and down again with interest. “You must be new. I heard news of Nuibaba’s passing from one of my spies, and came to see what was left. You must be her last creation.”

“‘New?’” the young woman repeats. “What’s that mean? What’s your name?”

The blue man takes a long sigh and holds a hand out to her. “Well, come along. You’re obviously sentient, and it’d be a shame to waste you. Let’s get something pretty for you to wear, alright? Something that really… brings out those curves, perhaps? It’d be a shame to dress you in something drab.”

The young woman stares at his hand, furrowing her brow at his long, black nails, but decides to take his hand anyway. He seems alright, and he doesn’t look mean. Besides, the mansion behind her is scary, filled with lots of loud sounds and screaming, and she’d rather go with him, where it might be quiet.

“Do you have a name?” he asks. “Sometimes sentient ones like you remember their names.”

The young woman shakes her head, but frowns. A lot of things seem okay, but not having a name doesn’t seem to be one of them.

* * *

Zeke is tired of being a glorified butler, and daydreams about punching Jerome in the mouth most of the time. It’s the only thing besides Tatiana that really keeps him going, even though he knows it’s a fantasy that will never be fulfilled. But, every single time Jerome holds out his empty mug wordlessly and waits while Zeke pours him a new cup of coffee, the thought of his teeth cracking under his fist is really, _really_ therapeutic.

“He’s as tame as a neutered puppy,” Jerome boasts to a passing general one day, while the man is on his way to Zofia under Berkut’s orders. “I have him whipped into shape. He does everything I say!”

One day, Zeke is going to have Tatiana back, and nothing is going to stop him from showing Jerome the business end of his spear. He wonders if the man knows that, every time he demands that Zeke do all the heavy lifting around the base, or every single time he mocks him over his situation.

Zeke is finishing his and Jerome’s paperwork for the day when a soldier comes bursting into his office, clearing his throat and heaving. Zeke puts his quill back into the inkwell, folds his hands together politely, and waits for the soldier to speak.

“General Jerome needs you,” he gasps out.

Zeke narrows his eyes and stands, going for his greatcoat at the door. “More coffee for His Majesty?”

The soldier swallows and shakes his head. “No, sir. He needs you out on the Plains, towards your village! The Deliverance is headed this way.”

A fight? A real, actual fight? Zeke doesn’t want to fight the Deliverance, and that’s part of the reason he and Tatiana are in this entire damn mess, but doing his actual job sure seems a hell of a lot better than brewing tea.

He pulls his greatcoat off the hook and slips it on, tying the clasps and reaching into the pocket for his riding gloves as he leaves his office. “Saddle Ephraim for me. Have someone bring me my saber and a silver lance. I want the best one in the inventory.”

The soldier seems barely able to contain his excitement. “Sir, if you crush the Deliverance here, then Tatiana-!”

“I’m well aware of what may happen,” Zeke replies shortly, but his heart is hammering in his chest in a feeling akin to delight. “Now, hurry! I don’t have time to sit around.”

The soldier rushes off to the stables, and Zeke finishes arranging his coat. He takes a moment to pause, reaches into the inside pocket, and pulls out a scarlet ribbon. He stares down at it wordlessly, recalling how beautiful it made Tatiana’s hair look, and slips it back into hiding.

A little more, he tells himself. A little more suffering, and then he gets to go home to a warm bed and the love of his life.

Just a little more.

* * *

This Rigelian battalion is truly frightening, and Alm is horrified that it’s all because of a single man. He’d strode onto the battlefield atop a big, black warhorse, not a single piece of armor on him. He wore only a greatcoat a color to match his steed, Alm had noticed, and Python had immediately assumed he was an easy target.

“I’ll knock him down,” Python had assured while knocking an arrow. “Sorry. Nothing personal, pal.”

The arrow had flown true, but the man had knocked it out of the air with the head of his spear as though he was swatting away a pesky fly.

And that was when Alm knew that things were really going to go south.

“Who is that?” he shouts to Clive.

Clive knocks away a sniper, and his horse slams her hooves into the skull of an unfortunate mage who gets too close. “I’d heard that Rigel gained a new general nearly two years ago. A man by the name of Ezekiel. Rumor spread even to our Zofia that he was a god of war made mortal, but I doubted those who said such. It seems I shouldn’t have.”

A burst of lightning then throws Clive from his horse, and Alm shouts his name. Mathilda rides by, scooping her fiancé up, and they disappear into the swarm of blood and bodies. Alm beats a knight back with a firm blow from his sword, knocking the wind out of the man, and rolls to the side as Kliff finishes him off.

The general is crossing the river, his horse wading through the heavy water easily, and Alm hasn’t felt such intense fear since his first real battle. The man, even from a distance, exudes strength and war prowess, and nothing seems to hit him. Clair dives at him from above, and he knocks her away using only the shaft of his weapon. Tobin tries sending a volley of arrows his way, but his shield renders them useless. Even Mathilda, who has dropped Clive off somewhere, tries going toe-to-toe with the man, and they clash for a while. It looks like she almost gets him a few times with clever swings of her lance and carefully timed blows, but he knocks her down eventually with a nasty jab at her arm. The only thing stopping her from getting her skull smashed by his horse is Silque warping her away.

Silque warps her next to Alm, of all people, and Mathilda is groaning and grasping at a bleeding wound on her arm. Silque and another cleric come running up then, getting to their knees next to Mathilda and Alm, and he looks frantically between the two of them. He then checks to ensure that the general is still a good ways away, and is satisfied to find that Forsyth and a couple other knights are keeping him busy.

Alm secretly hopes that someone beats the man down before he gets to him.

“He’s a beast,” Mathilda gasps, and she then grits her teeth and narrows his eyes. “The bastard was _playing_ with me! Nobody- nobody has ever-!”

“Keep calm, Mathilda,” Alm says. “We’re going to get you patched up really quick, and then you can have at him again, once everyone has worn him down.”

“I don’t have anymore bandages,” the cleric next to Silque says with worry. “We need to get some gauze and elixir on this before healing with a staff.”

Alm checks around them, and is relieved to find ally soldiers surrounding them at most angles. He takes the armor off his arm, takes a handful of his sleeve in hand, and rips it straight off. He offers it to the cleric with a sheepish look, but she appears grateful regardless and ties it around Mathilda’s bleeding arm.

“I don’t suppose you’d have a scrap of cloth to soak with this elixir?” It’s a tease that Silque offers him, tense with fear, and she laughs without humor as Alm pulls off his glove and offers it.

Mathilda hisses as the medicine is pressed to her wound, and Alm gives her a weak apology before making to grab his sword. There’s nothing more than he can do, now that he’s offered half the clothing on the left side of his body to her, and he should really get back to fighting.

A shadow looms over them all, very suddenly, and Mathilda’s eyes fly open in panic as she reaches for a lance that isn’t there. The clerics shrink away, and Alm snaps his head over to the source of the shadow. His stomach sinks as his eyes trail up from the black horse to the knight astride it.

Alm throws himself in front of the clerics and Mathilda, an arm thrown out to shield them, and the other holding out his sword threateningly. He can feel a sweat starting on the back of his neck, and the choking pressure that the man exudes bears down on his shoulders without relenting. His gaze from atop his mount is cold, his dark eyes smoldering with some unknown emotion, and he sighs as he looks down at them.

“You’re only but a young boy,” the general mutters. “I like children. I don’t enjoy the thought of having to maim you, son. Retreat from my homeland immediately, promise to not come back, and I swear to let all of your resistance go.”

He speaks politely and evenly, and there’s even a little bit of pity in his voice. What he asks is impossible, however, and Alm brandishes his blade.

“I won’t be retreating. If you want me gone, you’ll have to cut me down.”

The man sighs, shaking his head a little, and then frowns. “Forgive me, then. It is not my wish to fight with you. I pray you bear me no grudge in turn.”

He lifts his spear, Mathilda shouts Alm’s name, and Alm levels his shield and holds his sword out. He waits for the blow to crash into his shield and throw him backwards, but it never comes. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits a little longer, but there is nothing. Mathilda has stopped screaming and cursing the man out, and there is silence, save for the howls of battle around them.

Alm looks up, and the general is staring at him in awe and lowering away his weapon.

“Where did you get that mark on your hand?” he questions quietly. “The cross there, on your left?”

It doesn’t seem to be a trap; the man has lowered his spear and even his shield, leaving himself wide open, and is simply regarding Alm's hand in wonder.

Nervous yet curious, Alm holds his hand out a little for the general to see better. He’s relieved when all the man does it lean down on his horse to scrutinize it better. “I’ve, um, always had this. Does the mark mean something to you?”

The general crinkles his nose, looks about nervously, and then holds out a gloved hand for a shake. “My name is Ezekiel.”

So Clive had been right; this is Ezekiel, the war god made flesh, according to rumor. No surprise, really.

Baffled, Alm takes his hand in return. An arrow comes whizzing towards them, but Ezekiel pulls a sword from his belt in a flash and knocks the shaft out of the air. It crumbles in two perfect pieces, and Alm swallows as the man sheathes his weapon, all without releasing their handshake.

“This is sudden,” Ezekiel warns. “And may seem a trick of the mind, but I swear it is not. I am now fighting on your side.”

Alm blinks. “What?”

“I’ll call my men off,” he promises, and he releases Alm’s hand and puts it back on his reins. “As for Jerome’s faction, they’ll keep trying to slaughter you. But I will do what I can.”

Alm grabs an embellishment on the horse’s adornments, keeping Ezekiel from dashing off. “What?”

“I will explain things to you after the fight,” he promises. “Now, excuse me. Do try to keep yourself alive until all of this is over.” He leans over and gives Mathilda a pitying look. “Please forgive me for nearly smashing your head in, madam. It won’t happen again.”

“Bastard,” she mumbles, and Ezekiel rushes off.

Alm stares after him, blinking stupidly, and then asks no one in particular, “What?!”

* * *

Jerome, as expected, refuses to call off his troops, though Zeke’s easily rally to his side and stop fighting the Deliverance. The Zofians seem to be having an easier time now that half of their opponents are gone. Yet, as much as Zeke hates to admit it, Jerome and his army are no slouches, and not so easily beaten down.

“I always knew you were a traitor!” Jerome accuses as they circle each other. “Ever since the moment I saw you, I knew you were Zofian trash. Just waiting for the right time to strike at Rigel’s unprotected underbelly.”

Zeke narrows his eyes and Ephraim beneath him shakes his mane, almost indignantly. He soothes him with a quick pat to his flank, and then he has his hand on his spear once more.

“I am telling you that the Emperor does not want us to fight this man,” he attempts to reason again. “Do you really think that I would joke on such a matter while you have my lover in your greasy palm?”

Jerome sneers. “After this, I’m convinced that she was simply a stepping stone for you to get here. Playing lover to a sweet little Rigelian girl to truly make you seem one of us. I’m sure putting up with her wasn’t all bad, though. Hot meals, a warmed bed, and a younger woman to pleasure you whenever you wanted. Is that all she was, Ezekiel? A nice pair of hands to-”

Jerome grimaces as Zeke’s lance smashes into his shield, and he gives a barking laugh as they part to once more circle each other. “Touchy, touchy, Ezekiel!”

Zeke figures that punching Jerome in the mouth would be satisfying, but skewering him on the end of his lance would be even more so.

“I’ve had enough of you,” he tells Jerome. “I’ve decided: I’m going to end your miserable life here, and then I’m going for Nuibaba. After that, these Plains will be free of you and your tyranny!”

“This is treason!” Jerome spits, and he levels his lance. “For the glory of Rigel!”

Jerome puts up a fight, he really does, but it’s not even five minutes before his innards lay strewn over the battlefield, and the fight is over.

Zeke feels better than he has in months.

* * *

“Emperor Rudolf asked you to abandon your position and follow _me?”_ the boy repeats for the umpteenth time. He holds out his hand to Zeke, practically shoving the Brand in his face. “Because of this stupid birthmark?”

Zeke clears his throat and sets his lance aside. He’s got most of the blood off of it, and he sets the red-soaked cloth down as well. “Well, clearly it isn’t some ‘stupid birthmark,’ seeing as how it distinguishes you as someone worthy of His Majesty’s attention and respect. He said you would save all of Valentia, my lord.”

The boy winces and holds up his hands. “Don’t- don’t call me that, okay? My name is Alm. I’m a kid from a southern Zofian village in the sticks. I’m not anybody’s lord.”

Zeke straightens his cravat and puts his hands on his knees. “My name is Ezekiel. I’m a washed-up amnesiac from a western Rigelian village. I’ve been ordered to follow you, and my lord you will be.”

Alm groans and buries his face in his hands, and then looks back up. “If you didn’t want to fight us, then why did you? If it was so easy for you to get rid of that superior officer of yours, why not do it before? You certainly don’t seem to be a guy who has something to be afraid of.”

Zeke’s blood runs cold. He fixes his coat's cuffs, though there’s not so much as a wrinkle to smooth out. “I’m- I’m afraid… I need to go to Fear Mountain immediately, Lord Alm.”

“Just Alm,” he chides. “And why do you need to go there?”

“We’ve already been to Fear Mountain, General Ezekiel. The keeper of the manor there, Nuibaba, has been appropriately dealt with.” A man with dark red curls comes walking up behind Alm, and he politely smiles and offers his hand to Zeke. “My name is Lukas, sir. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

His heart lunges. Zeke stands, ignoring Lukas’ polite gesture. “You did? This is excellent news! What of the prisoners?”

Lukas and Alm look at each other, and slowly, the boy gets to his feet. “Prisoners?”

Zeke’s heart falls as quickly as it had risen, and he swallows. “Yes, prisoners. You see, the reason I was fighting was because my lover had been taken up to Fear Mountain by Nuibaba. They threatened her with great harm if I did not do as told. I’ve been living the past months in absolute terror.”

Alm appears to be growing nervous, and Lukas pulls a notebook out of a pocket of his trousers.

“Alm, please tell me about the prisoners,” Zeke says again, and he hopes that perhaps using the boy’s name as he wishes will help him get an answer.

“Ezekiel, there weren’t any alive prisoners,” he says in a hushed voice. “Not a single one.”

The world flips over in a second, and Zeke stumbles back on numb legs. Alm shouts in surprise, grabs his arm to try and to steady him, and he slowly eases him back down onto the log he’d been sitting on before. His mind is fuzzy, but he still manages to work out, “Please, no. Th-they promised to not harm her. Please, tell me you’re lying.”

Lukas is flipping through the notebook, and he looks to Zeke. “We thought something like this may happen, so we took note of every girl’s appearance. Can you describe her to me? A hair color, skin, general height?”

Zeke swallows and stares into his lap. “Short. Pale skin. Very soft green hair. Sh-she was exquisitely beautiful.”

The last detail is unnecessary, but when he thinks upon her ravishing beauty, her lush pink lips and warm gray eyes, it’s impossible to keep it from slipping out.

Lukas frowns as he goes through the pages of his notebook, and Zeke knows he’s taking a good, long look at the information he has, because he settles down next to him and goes through the notes for a solid six minutes before speaking.

“I have no notes matching that description. This may be good news for you, General Ezekiel.”

Alm nods. “That’s right. We didn’t miss anything. I mean trust me. We looked everywhere in that mansion. Every dungeon, every torture chamber, every hidden door. We scoured that whole place, and found nothing.”

“Where is she then?” Zeke asks weakly, and he puts his head in his hands. “My sweet Tatiana…”

“Maybe she escaped in the confusion of the battle,” Lukas suggests. “Could she have fought her way out?”

The thought of Tatiana trying to do so is almost comical, but he can’t find so much as a chuckle within him. “My Tatiana? Never. She could have snuck away, but fought? She’s a saint, but combative magic makes her extremely exhausted. On top of that, the sweet girl abhors violence and fighting. There is no way she could have escaped Fear Mountain. Not while Nuibaba lived.”

* * *

The Deliverance relents to hang around the village for a couple of days while Zeke gets his things in order. Mostly, he is waiting for Tatiana to come wandering home, and he spends the time he isn’t spending packing and cleaning up the house waiting at the edge of the village for her. He waits for a glimpse of seafoam hair, a cheerful call of his name, for her to come to him, tears in her eyes as always. He waits with the red ribbon in his hand, ready to tie her hair up, wipe the tears away, and assure her that things will be okay now.

But he waits for nothing.

Zeke writes a letter, leaves it with the head of the church to give to Tatiana if she winds up coming home—he prays that she does—and goes off to war with the Deliverance.


	3. the caverns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST! HEAVEN! NOW!

“So.” Zeke leans back against a bale of hay. “Tell me about Valentia.”

He doesn’t know his name is Ezekiel yet. To himself and Tatiana, who lies down next to him and plucks a piece of hay out of his hair, he is simply The Stranger. Some foreigner who washed up on her beach out of the blue on an unusually warm autumn day, who keeps hanging around because he has nothing else.

He is just her stranger.

“What do you want to know?” she asks.

The stars are out, and they cast a divine light upon her as she snuggles up with a barn cat who decides to nestle between them. Her heavenly gray eyes peer over at him, and she ducks her face into the calico fur of the cat.

“Anything, really,” he supposes. “I fear I know little to nothing. I can’t even recall where I’m from.”

Tatiana hums and shuts her eyes, and starts to rub the cat. “Well, there are two countries on the Valentian continent. Rigel, which is in the north, and where we are now. But we’re right on the border. South to us is Zofia.”

“Fascinating,” he mumbles as he shuts his eyes.

Tatiana giggles, and the sound is as soft as everything else about her is. “The continent was founded ages ago, by two sibling gods named Duma and Mila. Duma is patron to us in Rigel, and Mila matron to those in Zofia.”

“Why separate?” Zeke asks.

Tatiana scratches the cat behind the ears, and it purrs loudly enough that Zeke can almost feel the vibrations. “They fought. For centuries and centuries, they fought. They were siblings, but they had very different ideas. Duma, the War Father, wanted man to strive for their strength. He believed that humans had to be strong to survive their cold and harsh lives, but that the strength should not simply be handed over to them. They had to work.”

“And this Mila thought the opposite?”

“Mila, the Earth Mother, knew that people led short, hard lives. Like any mother, she wanted to lavish comfort and luxury upon her children, so they could pursue pleasure and a life of ease.” Tatiana shifts, and pouts a little as the barn cat flees. “Awww.”

Zeke has the urge to roll over and take the cat’s place under her caressing hand. “So that’s how it was.”

“Yup. That’s how it was. Here on the border, it’s not uncommon to find people who worship both Duma and Mila. We benefit much from Mila’s Blessing, in the form of trade and traveling merchants, and we must also offer her our thanks.” Tatiana’s expression turns a little sour, and she leans her head back against the hay. “But you aren’t likely to find any Zofians who worship Duma. Zofians think that we’re all warmongering savages, and that Duma tells us to be that way. They don’t understand anything.”

Zeke looks up at the stars in the sky and puts his arms behind his head. “I think Duma has the right idea, to be honest.”

“Right?” Tatiana says excitedly. “There’s nothing wrong with getting spoiled a little, but if you just let your mother pamper you for your whole life, you’re not going to get anything done! You can’t protect yourself, and you can’t provide for yourself, and you can’t-”

“You seem passionate about Duma’s teachings,” Zeke interrupts.

Tatiana flushes a cute shade of pink and ducks her head into the hay, even though it probably pokes into her skin. “Well, yeah. I was raised in the church. My parents dumped me here like a sack of rotten potatoes and went on their way. Father Duma’s teachings filled me with all kind of hope and comfort.”

Zeke frowns at her sullen voice and takes a risk. He reaches out, hesitantly placing his coarse, blemished fingers on the top of her perfect hand, and waits to be shunned. He waits for her to be disgusted, call him a filthy man for even thinking of touching her, but she only pulls her face out of the hay and stares at him. She looks down at the tips of his fingers, just barely touching her, and then smiles.

“If you wanted to hold hands, honey, you just had to say so,” she whispers, and she turns her hand over to offer him her palm. “What a sweetheart!”

Zeke feels like some giddy teenage boy as he intertwines their fingers, and they sleep there, just like that on top of the hay, for the whole night.

* * *

“Hey, General. Hey, you. Get up!”

A pair of hands starts to shake Zeke awake, and he sits up fast enough that their owner squeaks. He puts a hand over his chest to still his heart while he looks about, and he quickly calms down as he soaks in the sight of the tent’s canvas walls and his weapons in the corner. The person shaking him awake is a little girl with bright brown eyes, and she’s glaring at him.

“Get up,” she says. “Alm is waiting for you!”

Zeke calms his breathing and gives her a sharp look. “What’s your name again, little one?”

“Delthea.”

“Delthea. Lovely name. Might I give you a lesson?”

“Uh, what is it?”

He stands suddenly, and in a fluid motion, scoops up Delthea by the back of her shirt. She shrieks and flails her arms, hitting him quite a few times, but she’s harmless as a declawed kitten without using her magic. He takes her to the entrance of the tent and gently sets her down outside.

“It’s very rude to come into a superior officer’s tent and shake him awake. You sit at the flap next time, knock on a post, and call.” Zeke frowns and taps her on the back, trying to shoo her along. “If I’d had a weapon on me, I might accidentally have skewered you.”

Delthea tosses her head, folds her arms, and scoffs. “That’s what I did. But you were sleeping like a rock! I shouted at you for two whole minutes before I decided to hop on in and actually wake you up.”

“I was that asleep?” Zeke looks to the side nervously. “I’m a heavy sleeper, but I always wake up when someone calls me. Forgive me for inconveniencing you, tiny one.”

“‘Little one,’ ‘tiny one,’ I’m not that small!” she protests.

Zeke gives her another pat on the back to send her along. “You’re thirteen. Go have breakfast.”

“You can’t patronize me!”

“Of course I can’t. Run along now.”

Delthea pouts and runs off, and Zeke rubs at his eyes and takes a deep sigh. He shuts the flap of the tent and moves to grab his uniform. Flickers of the dream—the memory—come back to him, little details like the sweet pink shade of Tatiana’s lips, the softness of her fingers, the excited lilt of her voice when she spoke. He remembers the giddy feeling in his stomach when she had allowed him to hold her hand, how content he had been even with hay poking into his neck.

Zeke misses her. He misses her desperately, and he hopes that by now, she’s back in the village, has received his letter, and is taking care of herself properly while she waits for all of this to be over.

* * *

Alm is standing with his hands on his hips and his back to him when Zeke comes walking up. In front of him is a wall of rock, heavy and unmovable. In the wake of a necrodragon attack, the valley had come crumbling in, and now, they are stuck. They’ve been stuck for nearly two weeks, hoping against hope for a way around.

“We could have our pegasus knights fly people over,” Alm muses.

Zeke walks past him and puts a hand on the obstruction. “No. The pegasi will tire quickly. We don’t know if there are archers on the other side waiting to shoot them down. Besides, we need our supplies and inventory with us at all times.”

“Well, what do we do?” Alm asks impatiently. “I’m glad this fell before we started walking through, but couldn’t it have waited, I don’t know, maybe a day? That would’ve been polite.”

“Nature is very impolite,” Zeke mumbles. “Have scouts discovered any other routes?”

Alm sighs. “Well, we could always go back through the valley and go the opposite, safer route, but that’s where the army is waiting for us. We’d have to fight our way through, and we would suffer a lot of casualties.”

“An option,” Zeke agrees. “But what about below?”

The boy blinks and tilts his head. “Excuse me?”

Zeke sets his hands on his waists and nods at the ground. “Below. Tatiana once told me that, when Necrodragons started cropping up in this area, people would use underground caverns to travel. They’re a little hard to get through, and likely crawling with Terrors, but consider it.”

Alm does consider it, resting his chin against his fingers. “We’d have to find a way in, but if we sent our clerics and mages who know Seraphim to the front, and our Falcon Knights as well, we could get through the Terrors easily. Pulling the caravans through might prove difficult, but this may be our best option.”

“You ought to put the scouts’ efforts to sniffing out a cavern entrance,” Zeke advises. “And when that has happened, send only a few men to scout it out and ensure it’s safe. After all this time, with the Necrodragons slithering about, the structure may have been compromised.”

“Alright. I’ll switch our scout’s efforts to finding an underground entrance.” Alm scratches the back of his neck and regards Zeke. “Are you doing okay?”

“Why would I not be, my lord?”

“Well, I mean, we haven’t heard anything from your village. About that Tatiana girl.”

His heart squirms in his chest nervously, but he keeps exuding his air of calm. “It would be risky to send a messenger out here. Necrodragons and all, you know? I’m sure that Tatiana is home safe and sound by now.”

They start their walk back to camp, and Alm asks, “What kind of person is she?”

Zeke could go on about Tatiana for hours without fail, but tries to keep his response to the point. “Well, she’s very kind. She’d give an absolute stranger the clothes off of her back if she thought they needed them. She’s clumsy, so she messes things up sometimes, but she’s also very talented at things like healing and sewing. And she has a singing voice like an angel, and-“

And he is rambling.

Alm doesn’t seem to mind, even appearing perplexed when Zeke stops. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t want to hear random things about a woman you don’t even know.”

“You look relaxed when you’re talking about her, though.” Alm looks ahead towards the camp. “Let’s have breakfast and you can tell me more. Here, what’s one random fact about her that you think is cute?”

This sweet boy, doing his best and going out of his way to make him feel better. Zeke is glad that this is the supposed savior of Valentia, Rudolf’s chosen champion, rather than a muscle-bound barbarian without any tact.

Zeke rubs his jaw as he thinks. “Let’s see. A random fact… Well, Tatiana has always been partial to the water, I suppose. It’s cute.”

* * *

Three days later, a scout finds an entrance to the caverns below. It’s a large entrance, thankfully, hidden behind a cluster of boulders and rocks that take the army about a day to move safely. It appears wide enough to pull even the largest of their caravans through, and doesn’t seem to be unsteady or dangerous, but Alm follows Zeke’s advice and takes a few people through to check the integrity of the cavern as a preemptive measure.

“Why did you bring me?” Python complains every five minutes. “This is way more up Forsyth’s alley. He loves doing boring stuff like this!”

Alm is at the front of the group, consisting of Zeke, Python, and Luthier. He has a lamp lit as they walk through the caves, and gives Python an exasperated look. “Forsyth was busy, and you weren’t. Now, come on. The sooner you stop complaining, the sooner we can finish scouting.”

Zeke rests a hand on a wall, surveying the area, and it seems sturdy. His fingers don’t trace over any cracks, there aren’t any great gaps in the stone, and nothing looks primed to come crashing down if the stray corner of a wagon bumps into it. It’s dark and damp in the caverns, even if they’re sturdy, and he thinks they probably won’t be much fun to trek through for a few days. But, the only option is the only option.

“It appears safe in here,” Luthier calls from the next space over. He comes back around the corner, looking about. “But, does something not feel off about this place to you gentlemen?”

“How do y’mean?” Python asks.

Luthier huffs and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I just- I don’t think this place is as empty as we think it is. Or, rather, I don’t think it’s been uninhabited for as long as we previously thought.”

Zeke grips his lance and casts a glance about, but finds no evidence of living. However, now that Luthier mentions it, it does feel like something is hanging in the air. Something unpleasant and heavy. A feeling he knows, but doesn’t like, and can’t really identify.

“Luthier is right.” Alm comes from around another corner, and there’s a robe in his grip: Bright red and purple, intricate patterns and countless layers. “I don’t see anyone in here, but this place was definitely inhabited until recently.”

“May I see that?” Zeke asks, holding out a hand.

Alm looks at the robe, then at Zeke, and hands it to him. Luthier and Python come over as he examines the clothing, and a few more looks at the patterns and colors confirm the clothes’ origin to him.

“These are the robes that arcanists and cantors in the Duma Faithful wear,” he explains. “It seems like we’ve wandered directly into their hideout.”

Silence spreads over the four, and then Luthier says, “I don’t detect any strong traces of magic in this place, however. I think its been cleared out.”

Python shrugs. “This could have been their midway point. You know, where they gathered before being sent out to fight us, instead of all being shipped all the way from the imperial capital.”

“Plausible.” Zeke drops the robes. “Alm, where did you find these?”

He points into the room over. “Just in here. Looks like a supply room, but hasn’t been touched in a while.”

“Why would they suddenly just leave?” Luthier wonders as they head into the next cavern.

“We’ve been fighting a lot of Duma Faithful lately,” Alm says. “We might’ve done in a good portion of those stationed here. The rest may have been ordered to retreat. Good for us, because we need these caverns more than them.”

The cavern is most likely some supply room, like Alm guessed. It’s filled with crates and boxes, containing all manner of things: Clothes, food, books, lamp oil, torches. Python immediately starts going through the crates, saying, “We need supplies,” when asked what he is doing.

“Not a bad idea,” Luthier agrees, and he starts going through the crates as well. “It seems plausible that they retreated quickly, seeing as how all this stuff is still here. And the perishable food doesn’t look spoiled, so it was recently.”

“I’m kinda hesitant to eat this food,” Alm mumbles as he pulls an orange out. “What if it’s, like, cursed? They left it here and put a spell on it so nobody else could use it.”

“Feed it to Forsyth and we’ll see what happens,” Python suggests.

“Don’t be rude,” Zeke scolds.

He comes across a box that appears to have been rifled through. It contains clothes, robes of different shapes and colors, and he sets his lamp to the side as he kneels and starts going through it. Alm, still holding the orange, comes and stands behind him, peering curiously as Zeke pulls things out. Python and Luthier are on the other side, going through food still, and don’t pay any mind to them.

“These are women’s clothes,” Zeke says after a moment. He holds a garment by the shoulders, and it unfurls to reveal a dress in the Duma Faithful’s colors. “Odd. Arcanists and cantors are men’s positions. Why would they have uniforms for women?”

Alm frowns, puts the orange away, and scrutinizes the dress. “Well, maybe they aren’t for the arcanists and cantors. You know, they- they gotta dress the witches in something, I guess.”

Zeke’s heart skips a beat at the word “witches,” but doesn’t let it show. He only frowns as he puts the dress back in the box, and wonders aloud, “Why does it look like it’s been gone through so recently?”

“Who cares?” Python comes over, a half-eaten pear in his hands. “By the way, food doesn’t seem to be cursed. If it is, I guess this is how I go.”

“Python! I said to not eat that!”

“Screw off, Luthier!”

The dresses in the box continue to fill Zeke with a sense of unease, and he has to put the lid back on to keep it out of mind. There is an air in the supply room that he doesn’t like. Something… overly familiar, but not. He wishes he could put a finger on it, but knows that if he keeps thinking about it, it’ll just make him upset. So, he stands, picks up his lamp, and accepts the slice of an orange that Alm offers him. It doesn’t taste cursed. He thinks he’s probably safe.

* * *

They wander the caverns for what is probably another few hours, but it’s hard to tell in complete and utter darkness. The residual magic in the caves is even throwing off Zeke’s pocket watch, and he sighs with annoyance as he slips it back into his breast pocket. Time may have gotten away from them, but at least they know the way out; the walls of the cavern have been marked with directions, probably by the travelers who used them in years past.

“Well, looks like we’ve got a solid idea on how to get through safely,” Alm says. “And the caverns look sturdy, despite all the Necrodragons stomping around above. I think we could probably organize everyone and start marching through tomorrow. Thoughts?”

“Sounds good to me,” Python says. “Now, come on. Let’s get out of here. Just knowing that this place had Duma Faithful in it is giving me the willies.”

Zeke agrees, but stays behind the other men, quiet, and tries to not think about how uneasy he feels. He doesn’t know why he has this feeling, but he doesn’t like it. The sooner they get out of the caverns, the better.

They walk, and walk, and walk. It feels to Zeke like they’re just getting more turned around, however, and he frowns as he studies the symbols and directions on the wall. It’s with annoyance that he realizes they’ve been going the wrong way, and the rest of the men groan when he tells them so.

“Nothing else to do but turn around,” Alm grumbles. “Thanks for catching that. Who knows how deep we might have wandered before-”

“Shh!”

Everyone jumps as Python shushes them, and Zeke watches as the archer slowly lowers his bow from his shoulder. Dead silence pours over them, and Zeke can hear his heart beating in his chest. It feels like none of them are even daring to breath.

“What is it?” Alm asks quietly.

“I hear something,” Python tells him. “Keep quiet for a minute longer, chief.”

There is only silence, and Zeke is about to assure them that nothing is wrong. Nothing seems to be wrong, at least.

And then the cavern bursts into light, a few torches on the wall illuminating with fire. Alm yelps, Python’s grip on his bow tightens, Luthier scowls, and Zeke’s heart plummets.

The caverns were not as deserted as they thought after all.

“Damn it,” Alm hisses. “Get ready for something, I guess.”

“Stay behind me,” Zeke tells him, and he nudges him behind. “I’ll protect you.”

“Don’t treat me like a kid,” Alm snaps, but quiets down when Zeke gives him a pointed look.

There is sound, suddenly, and Luthier’s hands start flickering with a spell as they all prepare for whatever is coming. The clicking of what sounds like heeled shoes echoes through the passageway of the cavern, and Zeke grips his lance tighter. A sudden wave of humidity hits, washing over the four of them, and he grimaces.

“A witch,” Luthier guesses. “I can feel her presence. Perhaps she was abandoned here when the arcanists fled.”

Alm grits his teeth. “Great. Just what we needed. Python, ready an arrow. We’ll put her out of her misery before she can attack.”

“Gods damn it all. I hate witch-duty” the archer mumbles, but he knocks an arrow, crouches, and waits for the woman to come around the bend.

The clicks and steps get louder and louder, and the shadow of the woman suddenly looms on the wall, dramatized by the light of the torches. The shadow’s step is light, almost flouncy, and her skirts kick around her legs as she walks. As she comes closer to the bend, humming starts up. It’s a happy little tune that the witch hums, and Zeke’s heart plummets suddenly.

He knows that tune. He has listened to someone hum it while in the kitchen, while working in the infirmary, while getting ready for bed.

“Where~ are~ you~?” she calls out.

His shoulders stiffen.

He knows that voice.

He _loves_ that voice.

The witch finally comes around the bend, and she is as beautiful as the devil, with lilac skin, eyes that glow like full moons in the dim light of the caves, and an elegant black gown. Her painted lips are turned up in the most gentle, unassuming smile. She claps her hands together in delight when she sees them, leaning forward a little, and threads her fingers together.

“I found you!” she chirps. “I had to walk a long way, and it’s really cold and scary in here. You darlings aren’t very nice, you know?”

“Now!” Alm shouts, the same moment that Zeke lunges at Python’s bow, shouting, “Gods, no!”

“General!” Python snaps, and he fights against Zeke’s grip. “We gotta put an arrow in her before she maims _us._ It’s mercy, sir!”

“Alm, we mustn’t hurt her!” he implores, once he has wrenched the bow from Python. “Please, I beg of you.”

Alm has his sword drawn regardless, and his face is pale as the witch giggles into her fingers. “What are you-?”

“Please, Alm, please. That’s _her.”_

Alm appears confused for a moment, and then his face and sword fall as it clicks. “Oh, no.”

Tatiana smiles so sweetly, and the humidity in the dungeon becomes almost suffocating. Condensation starts to drip from the ceiling, and when she holds out a hand towards them, droplets of water hover above her palm. “One, two, three, four of you nice boys? Oh my, so much company! I’m so alone down here; won’t you please stay with me?”


	4. flooded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AGONY

“Tatiana.”

Her name leaves Zeke’s mouth weakly, painfully, slowly. It’s getting damper and more humid in the cavern, with condensation dripping from the ceiling almost like rain, but he can’t pay that any mind. How is he supposed to pay anything but her any mind? How is he even supposed to process _this,_ this girl who is not, and yet so clearly is, his Tatiana?

She’s purple. That’s kind of new. Her eyes are black like a void, save for two glowing yellow irises. But, it’s her. She’s got that hair, such a soft green, cascading down in messy curls and gentle waves, bangs that just barely brush over her eyes. She has those pretty lips, round and soft and perfect for kissing. Everything about her is the same: Her fingers, the shape of her nose, her cheekbones, the little tilt of her head, the body type-

“Tatiana,” Zeke says again, and he steps forward.

Alm grabs his arm and holds on. “Stop! That- that isn’t her. It can’t be.”

Zeke ignores him and stares, and he feels… _helpless._ There’s really no other way to feel as all of this starts to haltingly sink in, and he weakly says, “They lied. They lied to me.”

“Yeah, what a surprise! Your superior officer and that cannibalistic freak sure seemed like shining beacons of honesty,” Python snaps.

Zeke can’t find it in himself to be annoyed at the sarcasm and disrespect. His legs feel numb, and his grip on his lance is loosening. He feels like he’s forgetting how to hold it. Everything around is seeming to fade, except for Tatiana, Tatiana, Tatiana. Tatiana, who seems entranced with the water dancing above her palm. Tatiana, who looks innocent and unassuming as always. Tatiana. Tatiana.

His sweet, sweet Tatiana.

The strength floods back into him as water drips from the ceiling onto his nose, and he shakes his head. He pulls his arm out of Alm’s grip and, despite Luthier begging him not to, starts to walk towards her. Tatiana’s eyes flicker from the water hovering in her hand to his lance, and the glimpses of worry and fear in them don’t escape Zeke. He drops his weapon as he walks, even unbuckling the sword belt around his waist and abandoning his saber, and stops when he is five feet away from her.

“Come back here,” Alm warns. “This is a trick.”

But Tatiana doesn’t seem aggressive or dangerous. She blinks up at him with those doe eyes, and it’s so unnerving to see those glowing pale yellow irises instead of her big gray ones. Beautiful, soft gray eyes, like an entire rainy day has been contained within them. Little undercurrents of green beneath that he can remember so clearly, despite not having seen her in so, so long. Beautiful, gorgeous eyes that look at him so lovingly when they kiss, when he holds her close and lavishes her with his affection and adoration.

“I had to look for you for a long time,” Tatiana says. “I’m-”

“Do you know me?” Zeke interrupts in a quavering voice, one that is completely unbecoming. His voice should also be firm and strong when he is around his commander and his subordinates, but he can’t help it. He hopes against hope that she knows him.

She tilts her head back as she looks up at him, lowering her hand and its little water show. She frowns after a moment, appearing perplexed, and shakes her head. “No. Should I? I didn’t know I was supposed to know you.”

“General, come back here,” Python calls. “Listen, she’s gonna-!”

“Shut up!” Zeke snaps back, and regrets it when Tatiana flinches at the way his voice rings through the cavern. She’s never liked it when he yells. “I’m sorry, darling.”

“‘Darling,’” she echoes, like she’s rolling it around her mouth and tasting it. The word seems to only confuse her more. “That... sounds nice.”

There’s a flicker of humanity in the way she is speaking, and he swallows. He lifts trembling hands as he steps closer to her, and his heart aches and sinks at the way she nervously regards him and steps back. Against common sense, he keeps approaching her, because he just wants one little touch, something to hold on to.

“Tatiana,” he whispers. “What did she do to you, my sweet?”

“We have to stop talking now,” she says.

Zeke freezes where he stands. “What?”

Tatiana lifts her hand back up and gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but the master says he doesn’t want you here.”

“Ezekiel!”

Alm calls his name, but he barely hears it before a wave crashes into him. Water fills his senses, smashing against his nose, filling his mouth, clogging his ears, and he chokes at the suddenness of it. The force pulls his feet from the cavern floor, and it washes him away, a current pushing and pulling in every which direction, before spitting him out and collapsing into a simple puddle.

Zeke is on the floor, soaking wet, and a look up tells him that the wave had not only struck him; Python, Luthier, and Alm are in various places in the cavern, also soaked and stumbling to their feet. Python’s grip on his bow is iron-tight, and it worries Zeke. Badly. Especially because he looks mad, and not all of his arrows have washed away in the wave.

“Wow!” His eyes snap over to Tatiana, who is looking at her hands with sheer delight. “I’ve never done that before. The master was right—I can do something special!”

He takes a moment to shove his limp bangs out of his face while he gets to his feet. He should have had his guard up, but he hadn’t expected Tatiana to attack. Hadn’t expected her to be able to attack, even. He shouldn’t be surprised, though.

She’s a witch.

“We have to fight our way out of here,” Luthier calls to them. “General, I’m sorry, but that’s the only way we’re getting out.”

Alarm pounds in him, and he nearly slips in his haste to stand in front of Tatiana, shielding her from them. “No! We- we can reason. Yes, that’s right! We can reason with her, and-”

And another wave slaps against Zeke, once more washing him all the way across the cavern. When the water pulls away from his ears, he hears a delighted laugh. He’s used to hearing that laugh when she feels accomplished, like when she finishes a new quilt or perfects a new healing spell. He isn’t used to hearing it in such a cruel context, when she is causing someone pain.

Tatiana, causing someone pain. It’s surreal. This entire situation is surreal.

Tatiana is a witch.

The puddles left from the waves start to grow while the four once more try to stand. Zeke reaches out and pulls Alm to his feet, and they both stare in concern as the water starts to rise up to their ankles, then to their calves.

“You know, I’ve never seen a water witch,” Alm says weakly. “Guess she sure is special.”

“I’m making the shot,” Python says, and Zeke doesn’t react fast enough. An arrow goes flying past before he can so much as open his mouth, but it doesn’t matter anyway. The water snaps up suddenly, forming a wall as the arrow gets close to Tatiana, and it sucks it in easily. There’s a moment’s pause before it crashes back down to the floor, and all Python says in reply to it is, “Shit.”

Tatiana waves an arm in a grand sweep, and a ripple moves through the water. Zeke hasn’t felt so helpless in a long time, because this entire situation is unpredictable. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, or when, or how dangerous Tatiana actually is. He just makes sure to keep Alm close to him, because he’ll be damned if he lets Valentia’s savior meet his end by some water.

The ripple grows and climbs into a roaring wave, and it smashes against the four of them. It knocks Luthier right over, and Alm stumbles, but Zeke leans forward and braces himself against it. It washes completely over Python, nearly carrying him away, but he manages to keep his balance. Zeke is almost relieved to find that, when Python reaches back for an arrow, the wave has carried away his quiver.

There isn’t a moment of rest before another, much stronger wave rises and crashes against them with a snap of Tatiana’s fingers, and Zeke gets a mouthful of the water as it sweeps over his head. He nearly falls backwards under the weight and pressure of it all, but fights to keep his stance. He has to start walking towards Tatiana, so he can stop her and snap her out of this, and he can’t afford to fall down now.

The water on the ground grows, and it’s now up to Zeke’s thighs. A current starts rushing through it, pulling them all around and weakening their balance, and Alm goes under for a moment when the next wave comes. Luthier is struggling, clutching to Python, who is red with rage and probably a lack of oxygen.

“She's just playing!” Python spits out a mouthful of water. “General, we can't-”

“I swear to the gods themselves, if you lay a hand on her, I’ll tear your throats out!” Zeke shouts. He shakes his damp hair out of his face, coughing and heaving, and stares at Tatiana, who is clapping her hands in delight. “My darling, _please_ -”

“You keep calling me such nice things,” she says with a brilliant smile. “What a nice man! I'm so sad you have to go, honey.”

“Please!” he begs once more, and he feels so weak with desperation that he lets the next wave knock him below the water. His hand bumps into something hard, and it’s with shock that he finds his lance. He grabs it and breaks the surface, gasping.

He feels guilty when Tatiana appears afraid once more, but he hopes that the weapon acts as a deterrent. Stopping one arrow is simple enough, but stopping a lance is a different story. He has no intentions of harming a hair on her head, but letting her think that he might is probably their best bet at an escape right now.

“What’s going on here?”

A man in arcanist robes all but melts out of the shadows behind Tatiana, and Zeke hears Python go, “We’re going to die.”

Tatiana stops giggling all of a sudden, and the waves die down. Zeke drags Alm out of the water in the moment of calm, and the boy splutters and gasps. Luthier and Python are also collection their bearings, and they all watch as the man strides towards them, gingerly wading into the water to properly survey the scene. He’s short, a frosty blue color, and has slicked back black hair. He frowns as he looks at them, and the water, and then turns to Tatiana.

“They’re still here,” he says pointedly.

Tatiana nods. “I had to look for them for a long time. Sorry about that.”

The arcanist sighs and rests a hand on Tatiana’s shoulder, pulling her close. “In any case, don't you think it's a little-?” He waves a hand about, searching for a word. “Moist in here, friend?”

Tatiana blinks, then looks around the cavern. Her face falls, and she presses a finger to her lip. “Oh no! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make a mess. Silly me.”

“It's all wet now,” the arcanist agrees. “How about we go all the way? Just fill the whole tunnel?”

Zeke jumps, drops the lance back into the waves, and starts stumbling through the water.  “No! Tatiana, don’t!”

The arcanist looks at him with shock. “You know her? Well, doesn’t matter. Girl, fill the cavern and let’s be on our way. We’ve a place to be. I wonder if you’ve ever been to the imperial capital before.”

“We have to go,” Luthier gasps. “We have to leave!”

The arcanist takes Tatiana by the hand and starts taking her deeper into the caverns, and Zeke calls out, “Tatiana! Tatiana, come back! _Tatiana!”_

They disappear in a small blip of light that warps them away, and Zeke feels like screaming. There’s no time to have a fit, though, because the water starts pouring in from the two entrances to the cavern they are in. He hears Python shout as a current carries him away, and much too quickly for comfort, the water starts rising. It rises faster and faster as more water comes flooding in from gods-know-where, and the ceiling gets closer.

“No way out!” Alm calls, and he swims over to Zeke. “What should we do?”

Normally, Zeke thinks he would have a plan. A sound strategy, formulated because his head is always on straight and he is always calm, but he’s got nothing. His mind is buzzing, he cannot stop thinking— _Tatiana is a witch Tatiana is a witch Tatiana is a wi —_and part of him is completely disassociated from what is happening. He feels like he’s in an awful nightmare, some cruel dream. He can’t focus, not even when Alm shakes him, and the ceiling of the cavern growing ever closer doesn’t feel real.

“Where is all of this water even coming from?” Alm asks.

“Damn magic!” Python spits as he throws his hands out to touch the ceiling. “We’re gonna die now, because _someone_ couldn’t take one for the team!”

“Don’t be cruel to him!” Alm shouts.

Zeke knows they’re talking about him, but it sounds like they’re coming from a hundred miles away.

Tatiana.

“We’re going to die anyway,” Luthier mumbles, and then waves an arm out at them. “Swim back! I’m going to blow up this wall.”

“What?” Alm cries.

“There’s a slim chance, but maybe we’re elevated and near the outside. If not, it’ll at least make more room for all of this water, and we can have more time to figure something else out.” Luthier throws his hands against the wall, and both Python and Alm grab Zeke and drift away. Luthier mumbles something under his breath, there’s a pulse that flows over them, and then a deafening sound.

It shakes Zeke from his haze, definitely, but it’s also hard to really fully process what’s going on when he is drowning, being carried along through the current as all the water floods out of the cavern. Debris races along with them, carried helplessly. Water pours into his mouth, up his nostrils, and stings at his eyes. There’s no way to possibly get his bearings or his balance, and he can’t even try to swim when things are just moving so fast. He doesn’t know where Alm is, nor Python or Luthier, and he finds himself simply praying that they don’t die.

A sharp, agonizing pain then pierces his side, and a stream of bubbles leaves Zeke’s mouth as he cries out on instinct. He wonders if he’s just imagining it as he’s thrown around, but he thinks he is leaving behind a cloudy trail of red. Another stab of pain and a strained, desperate brush of his fingers to his side confirms it:

A chunk of broken rock has wedged itself right above his waist.

Not a second later after he realizes he’s been impaled, the water rushes outside, and Zeke is released from its death grip. He chokes as the water washes away, gasping in air, and then cries out as the flood dumps him on his wounded side. The rock starts digging in deeper, and he turns the other direction to relieve pressure. He pants, wheezing as his eyes start to focus, and he sees red pouring into the soaked grass below.

This isn’t good.

Another cry of pain alarms Zeke, and he turns his head to see his companions. All three of them are strewn around the grassy clearing, soaked to the bone and writhing. Their pain and injury are obvious, but thank the gods, they are alive. Python’s leg is twisted at an odd angle, however, and it makes Zeke sick to look at. The agonized cries of pains don’t help.

“Is-” Luthier gets to his knees, spitting out mouthfuls of water. “Everyone alright?”

Zeke tries to say something, but chokes on his pain. He wraps a hand around his wound and shakes his head, and hears Alm say, “Oh my gods!”

“They’re wounded,” Luthier says. “I’ll get Python, you get the general!”

Zeke grunts as Alm grabs him and rolls him onto his back, and he fights back the blinding pain in his side. He hears Alm hiss and opens his eyes. The boy has an expression on his face that suggests that he doesn’t think that Zeke’s wound looks too great.

“It’s bleeding bad,” he mutters. “Don’t worry, it looks like we wound up near camp. Luthier! Go get Silque and some other medics!”

“Hurts,” Zeke works out through gritted teeth. “But- that arcanist- Tatiana!”

“That was really her?” Alm’s voice is hushed.

Zeke nods stiffly. He tries to cling to consciousness, but it is slipping away from him quickly and surely. The pain in his side is blinding, but it doesn’t hold a candle to how much his heart hurts.

They had lied to him. Played him for a fool. They had harmed Tatiana anyway, even before he had done anything that would indicate treason. He can’t imagine how terrified she must have been, as Nuibaba took her to the slaughter, and it nearly makes him sick.

What does he do now? What can he do now?

Alm is calling to him (“Stay awake, stay awake!”), but Zeke cannot hear. He doesn’t know what to do.

All he has ever loved is gone.

* * *

The witch hums a lot, but the arcanist doesn’t mind. It’s just background noise at this point, though he’s never come across a witch who is quite so… noisy. She likes conversation, to hum and sing a little while she walks, things like that. Sentient witches are always a little peculiar, though, when compared to their mindless mark-a-dozen counterparts. They’ve got quirks, like those girls of Jedah’s.

He guides her through the forest, back towards the road that will set them right on track for the imperial capital. Jedah is waiting there, and the arcanist simply cannot wait to present this, Nuibaba’s first and last offering to Duma, to the Head Priest himself. Despite that excitement, he’s a little unnerved.

One of those men had known this witch, and more importantly, he had looked vaguely familiar. He’s heard rumors of a deserter as of late, one of Rudolf’s favorite generals slaughtering his superior officer and joining the Zofian’s merry little band. If the arcanist rakes through his mind, he can vaguely recall perhaps seeing that man at some meeting between the Church and the military in the distant past.

Oh well.

“Hey, hey!”

He looks over his shoulder at the witch. “Yes?”

“I liked that man,” she says.

The humming and singing is weird. But, not abnormal. This, though? This is abnormal. The arcanist cocks his head at her and stops walking, giving her a long look. “The- the tall one? With the dark clothes?”

She claps her hands together. “Yes! I really, _really_ liked him.”

He stares at her, and she seems to take it as an invitation to keep babbling.

“He had such pretty eyes, and he was _so_ handsome.” She sighs, almost dreamily. “And he called me such nice things. I was so sad when I had to make him hurt.”

Odd.

The arcanist furrows his brow. “Oh?”

“I hope I get to see him again,” she says.

“You drowned them.”

“Maybe they lived,” she suggests. “Such a nice, kind man. He made my heart flutter, and I felt all warm and fuzzy. Except when he had that scary lance. I didn’t like that.”

Heart?

_Heart?_

She doesn’t have a heart.

He swallows as they keep walking. “What do you want to do with him if you see him again?”

“Maybe eat him,” she says almost flippantly, and then sighs happily as she puts her cheeks in her hands. “Or maybe I want him to eat me. I don’t know, but I liked him so much. And, you know, he knew my name!”

“That’s right. He was calling you something, wasn’t he?” The arcanist’s mind is racing, but he tries to keep casual conversation while they walk. He doesn’t want to let her know that he’s getting nervous. Sometimes witches have… unpredictable reactions to perceived emotions.

“Tatiana!” She kicks a rock out of her way. “I think that’s my name.”

“I see. How nice for you.”

The witch skips ahead, examining a stream in their path, and the arcanist regards her. There is something bizarre about this witch, beyond just the odd quirk. She has mentioned a “heart,” which is baffling.

Witches don’t have hearts. They aren’t even supposed to remember the concept of one. There is no way she should be able to talk about her “heart fluttering” or “I liked him.”

There’s something wrong with her.


	5. nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmmMMM the good angst

“Darling.”

A tap on his nose, then on his lips. Gentle, but insistent. Zeke doesn’t open his eyes, instead mumbling uselessly.

“Daaaaarling~”

He shifts away from the voice and buries his head against the pillows. The giggle that follows is pleasant enough that it starts to wake him up. His eyes blink open, focusing on nothing, and then on Tatiana crouched by the bed. She’s up before him, which is unusual, and already dressed for the day. There’s a fragrant scent coming from the kitchen, and he hears the sound of oil popping and sizzling.

“You slept in,” she whispers. “Were you very tired?”

Zeke doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply staring at her, then turns to look outside the window by the bed. It looks like late summer, if he had to say, and his heart soars. There’s not a hint of snow on the ground, not so much as an orange leaf, and the sea is washing over the shore peacefully. It’s summer. It’s summer. Not winter.

He looks back to her as he sits up. “Come here.”

Tatiana stands, a curious expression on her face. “Is something wrong? Do you have a fever, or something like that?”

He frowns as she sits on the edge of the bed, then says, “Well, maybe. I had the most terrible dream. It felt like it lasted months. The only conceivable way I could’ve had a nightmare like that would be if I had a fever.”

She purses her lips and scoots closer. She leans in, tapping their foreheads together, and lets her eyes drift shut. Zeke shuts his as well, soaking in her warmth, the heady floral scent of her favorite perfume. Her messy hair, let loose instead of being pulled back, brushes against his cheek as she tilts her head while she focuses.

“You’re not warm,” she concludes. “Perfect, as usual. Your mind must’ve just decided it was time for something weird to happen.”

Zeke sighs with relief and reaches out to push her hair behind her ear. She’s beautiful as ever, with eyes still a little heavy from sleep, and lips that give way easily as he swipes a thumb over them. Her eyes are clear and bright, though confused as she studies him as intensely as he studies her. Everything about her is perfect, from her messy hair to her red dress to her bare feet.

He wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her, angling his head just so. Tatiana rests her hands on his shoulders, smiling against his lips, and doesn’t complain when he pulls her back to lie atop him. It’s peaceful, her tongue brushing past his lips, her fingers threading into his hair, the sea crashing down on the beach in the distance. Birds are chirping, and he can also hear the sound of fishermen getting ready to go out for the day.

Everything was just a bad dream.

Tatiana pulls away suddenly. “Oh! I forgot that I have breakfast on the stove!”

She rushes out, leaving him to sit up and stretch his arms over his head. He feels a little stiff and sore, but that’s normal for the morning. His side actually hurts though, and he thinks about the dream, where he was impaled with a rock right before he woke up. He frowns and shakes his head, then gets up.

Just a bad dream.

Zeke just finishes throwing a loose blouse over his head when he walks into the living area. It smells good, like seasoned meat and sizzling eggs. He takes in the smell of it, and for a moment, can’t believe he’s in his own home. It feels surreal, after that long nightmare. It even makes him appreciate it more than ever. He especially appreciates Tatiana working over the stove, humming an old Rigelian folk song that she loves.

“Can you get me a couple of plates?” she asks.

He reaches into the cabinet and pulls them down, setting them beside the stove. She turns off the flames, sets two pieces of bread on the plates, and then scrapes the contents of the pan on as well. It’s scrambled eggs and pork sausage, and he can’t wait to get at it.

“Hey, looks good,” he tells her. “As always.”

“It almost burned,” she mumbles. “I need to get better about watching the stove.”

“That could be good,” he agrees.

They sit at the table and eat quietly, occasionally indulging in a little small talk (“When do you go into work?” or “It’s so nice out today.”), but at this point in their relationship, neither of them feel a great need to constantly be speaking or sharing. The silence is nice, and it’s intimate. Never awkward or empty, not when they’re admiring the other or enjoying the food.

“Hey, Zeke?”

“Yes?”

“The market in the town over apparently opened up a new bakery. Could you take me there sometime? You know I don’t like going outside the village on my own, and everyone else is busy.”

He pauses, giving her a look, and then goes back to eating. “Of course. I’ll get work off in a couple of days and take you early.”

Tatiana claps her hands together. “Yay! I heard it’s really good. Though, I know you don’t like sugary stuff, so let me know if you change your mind.”

He cuts into one of the sausages, smiling at the delight in her voice. “It’s not a problem. They might have something savory there.”

More peaceful silence as they finish breakfast. Tatiana is unusually quiet as she takes their plates over to the sink, but Zeke doesn’t pay it much mind. Some days, she’s just quiet. No big deal. Nothing weird about it. He relaxes, taking a deep inhale and exhale, and drags a book from the edge of the table over to him. He flips through it idly, then hears, “Zeke?”

“Yes, my sweet?”

“Why did you let me die?”

He freezes, halfway through turning a page. Slowly, so slowly, he looks up. Tatiana is scrubbing dishes at the sink, and nothing seems to be amiss. He wonders if he misheard her, but knows that he couldn’t have misheard something like that. So, he is quiet, and he waits, frozen in place while he tries to come up with something to say.

“You said, when she took me, that you wouldn’t let anything bad happen.” She sets a dripping plate to the side to be dried. “So why did this happen?”

Slowly, Zeke shuts the book. “No.”

“‘No’ what, Ezekiel?” She puts the other plate aside, then rubs her hands into her apron. “Are you afraid of facing the consequences of your actions?”

He stands from the table suddenly. The chair falls back, smacking against the floor, and then sinks as though it has fallen into quicksand. He glares at it, scowling, and then looks over to Tatiana. She is frozen by the sink, head lowered towards the ground.

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” Zeke squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head. “This is.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” she reminds gently. “Why did you let me die? Did I do something bad?”

He walks towards her, like he’s being pulled by an invisible force, but also because he wants to be near her. “No.”

“Is it because you don’t love me anymore?”

“No!”

Tatiana looks up at him when he stops in front of her, and he recoils at her pitch black eyes. Her fingers trail up his arms slowly and sweetly, and then cup his face. Everything is still, and then:

“Is it because you want to run back to the one you left behind?”

He jumps and snaps his hands over her wrists, squeezing hard. _"No.”_

As if confused, she tilts her head. “Then why did you let me die?”

“I didn’t mean t-!”

The ground turns to thick, sticky liquid, and Zeke shouts as he starts to sink. Tatiana stands above him, watching as he sinks, and shakes her head as he starts grasping at whatever he can. It all turns to water when he touches it, splashing down and sinking into the ground with him.

She crouches as he sinks lower than her. “You said you would protect me.”

He grits his teeth. “Stop it.”

“You said you _loved_ me.”

“I do! More than anything else in the world, I love you!”

Her skin slowly starts to fade into lilac, her dress melting away into a black gown. Her eyes glow as everything begins turning into water, cold water, swirling and howling. Zeke is up to his chest in the ground by now, and uselessly, he clutches at the floor. His fingers slide through it like he’s clawing through sand, and he looks up at Tatiana desperately.

“I wonder.” She taps his nose, and then his lips, her own turned up into a sweet smile. “What’s the point of a person who can’t protect what they love the most?”

“No,” he whispers.

“Why did you let this happen to me?” she whispers.

His heart snaps in two.

Zeke lunges, reaching for her with his arm before it is covered. She doesn’t move away, and the second that his fingertips touch her hand, she explodes. She bursts into water, like everything else, and all Zeke can do is sit in horror as he sinks lower and lower, and the water finally crashes over his face and drowns him.

* * *

Zeke wakes up choking. His body tries to bolt upright, but the second his side screeches in pain, it stops. He groans, slaps a hand over the wound, and falls back onto the cot. Grimacing, he opens his eyes and takes a look around, and recognizes that he’s in the medical tent. It’s bitterly cold, and all he hears is the wind whistling through the valley.

When he looks to his right, he sees Python with his leg bandaged and elevated. He’s still asleep, face tight with pain, but doesn’t look too bad. To Zeke’s left is Luthier, resting quietly without any visible injuries. Then, he notices the bandages wrapped around his head, and figures he must have gotten struck and only registered it later. He doesn’t see Alm at all, and he sighs.

And then, reality smacks him in the face, and he gasps, “Tatiana.”

“General!” Silque bustles over, and she might as well have materialized out of thin air. He didn’t notice her before, but now she’s kneeling next to him, a hand on his forehead and another hovering over his wound. “You’re awake. I’ve sent for Sir Alm.”

His mind is getting cloudier with every passing second he thinks of Tatiana’s black, void eyes. “Wh-where-? How? Tatiana.”

Silque frowns; she doesn't know the name. “Rest easy. You don’t want to open up that ugly gouge in your side.”

“But Tatiana!” he protests. “I can’t rest. Let me up, ma’am. I have to leave right now, and-”

“Lie down.”

Alm walks into the medical tent, Lukas on his heels. The boy has a bit of a limp, but doesn’t look any worse for the wear. He’s fortunate, practically made of luck, and Zeke is grateful for it. It makes keeping an eye on him all that much easier. He just wishes he had the same sort of luck.

“I can’t,” he protests. “Alm, I have to go right now.”

“It’s been over a day now,” Alm tells him. “And even if it hadn’t been that long, they warped away. There’s no way of tracking them, or knowing how far away they are.”

“We did send Gray and a few others to investigate,” Lukas informs him. “But, as Alm says, impossible. A warp is high-level magic. Not even an experienced mage like Luthier would be able to detect any magic traces.”

“And even if you could find them, what would you do?” Alm mutters, looking to the side. “There’s nothing that can be done. All those poor women, just-”

“That’s not true,” Zeke shoots back.

“General,” Silque says warningly.

Alm grits his teeth and shakes his head. “It’s hopeless, Ezekiel. Witches are just- just _witches._ They’re all just puppets, and there’s nothing we can do for them!”

Lukas rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He speaks true, sir. A witch is a witch, and she does not belong to herself anymore. She’s simply a puppet of her master. In this case, it would seem that the Duma Faithful have come into possession of your lover, after Nuibaba’s demise.”

Zeke snaps and stands, sweeping out an arm to urge Silque away from him. His side cries out in pain as he moves, but he ignores it as he looms over Alm and Lukas. They both look at each other uneasily, but aren’t men easily cowed through physical intimidation, and stand their ground.

“There has to be a way to recover her soul,” he says. “There must be.”

“It’s not a matter of recovering the soul,” Alm argues. “It’s just gone. It’s gone, Zeke!”

He grabs the boy by the shoulders, squeezing them under his grasp, and both Lukas and Silque move forward in alarm. Alm doesn’t appear even slightly frightened, instead glaring back up in pure defiance. He’s a stubborn boy, hardened under the weight of his responsibilities. He doesn’t flinch, instead resting one hand over Zeke’s.

“We can’t do anything,” he says quietly. “And, if she comes back to stand against us, we’ll have to fight her.”

Zeke clenches his jaw and looks to the ground. “I can’t.”

“Then you can’t protect her again,” he says. “You saw. She didn’t know you. She didn’t have any problem with trying to drown you. Tatiana isn’t in there anymore, and she will kill you if she’s given the chance.”

It’s inconceivable. Unfathomable. He shakes his head, over and over, muttering, “No, no, no,” under his breath. He can feel the pity pouring off of everyone in the tent, but doesn’t care that he’s making himself out to be a weak, pathetic fool in the moment. The thought of Tatiana, so easily snapping her fingers and drowning them with a delighted smile, is a knife in the heart. The sweet girl he loves, who cries when he takes her hunting with him, causing pain and injury so flippantly. It hurts, burns in his chest, and he lets go of Alm with trembling hands.

 _You said you_ loved _me._ _Why did you let this happen to me?_

“I let this happen to her,” he says weakly. “Oh, gods. This is my fault. I just- I can’t-”

Zeke buries his face in a hand and tries to hold back his tears. He lets Silque pull him back towards the cot and lie him down, because he can’t find an ounce of strength in his body to fight back with. He hears, over and over, the dismayed sound of her voice in the dream, the insistent begging, everything. It crashes over him like a storm, and he can’t breath. Can’t think. Can’t feel it when Silque presses a hand to his forehead and washes a sleeping spell over him.

He hears, most definitely, when Alm tells him, “Zeke, if we fight her again, we have to kill her.”

“No,” he mumbles.

“Putting her down is a mercy,” Lukas adds in quietly. “We are sorry, General.”

His eyes are growing heavy, and he gives one more glance over to Alm before slipping into sleep.

* * *

For lack of a better term, Zeke broods for a week.

Everyone avoids him. They give him a wide breadth of space in the mess hall. Nobody sits next to him by the fire. Nobody wants to spar with him, or discuss ways to try and get around the valley safely, or anything. They all just look at him, pity in their eyes, and leave him to wallow in his misery alone.

Fine by him. It’s not like he wants to be coddled or comforted. It would make him uncomfortable, anyway. The only one who gets to pull him close and whisper gentle things in his ear is Tatiana, and right now, she is the center of all of his woes. It hurts. It hurts so badly, like a sword in the gut, twisted and jerked around. It hurts to think about how she suffered. It hurts to think about the fear she must have felt. It hurts to think of her, kept in that dark, cold cell for so long, only to be taken to the slaughter at the end. No reprieve from her suffering. No nothing.

Just pain.

Zeke sits by a fire in the middle of the night, fixing up his lance. The embers are smoldering, letting off a dim light, but he has an oil lamp next to him to light if it burns out. He just doesn’t want to sleep, rather than can’t, and has decided to do something productive with his time. So, he sharpens his lance to perfection, until the edge is so sharp that looking at it could cut someone, and then idly polishes it.

“Hey.”

He looks over his shoulder, admittedly annoyed that he didn’t notice Mathilda walking up behind him. Having his senses dulled is no good; anyone could have snuck up on him right now and shoved a knife in his back. He turns back to his lance silently and tries to scuff out a scratch on the surface.

“I’m assuming you’re fine if I sit?”

“If you’d please,” Zeke mumbles. “Nobody has wanted to sit next to me for a week. You’ve got balls.”

Mathilda laughs, settling down on the log, and crosses her ankles politely. She watches as he cares for his lance, then says, “You’re good at wielding those.”

He looks at her from the corner of his eye. “What?”

“Heavier lances like that. You throw them with such ease, single-handed! I’ve never seen anyone do that before. It must have taken you years of practice.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he replies. “But it must have, you’re right. It’s all muscle memory, oddly enough.”

“I prefer lighter makes,” Mathilda continues. “Mid-range styles. They work better for the way I fight. Heavier lances are probably better for your style, though. You swing that thing around and cut through everyone like a hot knife through butter. It’s impressive.”

“Why the small talk?” he interrupts suddenly. “Praise is well and good and all, but I’m sure you didn’t come out here just to discuss weapons.”

Mathilda raises a brow and looks up at the sky. “I wanted to apologize for your loss. I truly am sorry that this happened to you.”

A needle pokes at his heart, and he swallows, dragging the wax over the hilt of his weapon. He can’t think of anything to say, so he simply doesn’t speak.

“You’ve been so sullen in all of our meetings,” she continues. “I just wanted to let you know that, even though you’re Rigelian, know that you have friends here.”

He drags the block over the lance roughly, then mumbles, “I’m not a Rigelian.”

“What?”

“Not by birth. I’m from somewhere else. Can’t you hear my accent?”

“Well, yes, but-”

He’s angry for no reason, and growls as he thrusts the head of his lance into the ground. Mathilda doesn’t flinch or jump away, and he appreciates it. He’s tired of being regarded like a wild animal, even if it’s because of his temper, which is his own fault.

Except for the singing of crickets and snapping of the embers, silence passes between them for a long time, until she says, “Would it help you to talk about her?”

He stares into the glowing orange of the fire. “I don’t see how it would.”

Mathilda looks away. “I don’t either.”

The silence turns awkward, but neither is yet ready to leave. They sit around, waiting for nothing, and don’t talk. Zeke runs his hand over the hilt of his lance, feeling the smooth metal beneath his gloves. Something stirs in his stomach, and he opens his mouth to speak before he realizes it.

“Tatiana is completely selfless.”

Mathilda is quiet, but turns her body towards him to show that she’s listening.

“She-” He pauses, his tongue smoothing over his lips as he tries to think of words to describe her. “She’s young. Only nineteen when she pulled me out of the water. But, everyone in that village relies on her. It doesn’t matter how exhausted it makes her, or how many hoops she has to go through—if somebody needs her help, she helps them. Even though she’s the one who should be allowed to rely on others.”

Zeke rubs the bridge of his nose, warming it against the cold. “I don’t know how to explain her. Describe her. She’s literally everything good in this world, all wrapped up in one person. I was madly in love with her, the second I saw her. It just… took me a couple of months to realize it.”

“She sounds kind,” Mathilda says. “I’ve got a little sister that age, and she’s not half that selfless. Kind, but still a bit of a kid, you know? But, that could just have something to do with the luxury we were raised in. Maybe things are harder in villages.”

He picks up a scrap of dry kindling from the ground, then tosses it to the fire. “Tatiana admittedly had some, well, issues. Things that made her grow up faster than she should have had to. Rigel is a hard place to live.”

An owl hoots somewhere above them, drawing his attention up to the stars. He sighs, hangs his head, and shakes it.

“She was always particularly kind to children because of what she went through. Always rearranging her schedule to make time for them, watching them when their parents were out. If there was a child in need of anything, Tatiana was always the first to try and provide.”

He looks back up at the sky, lets his eyes drift shut, and slumps back a little when Mathilda says, “You must miss her dearly.”

He does. He always will.

* * *

“Keep up,” the arcanist snaps.

Tatiana—it still feels a smidge odd, having a name to attach to her—huffs as she strides alongside him. “I’m trying. Don’t get mad. It’s not nice.”

And there she goes again, with sentiments like “nice.” An odd duck this one is, and it’s really starting to get on his nerves. She should just be good and shut up, but she won’t. She’s humming and rambling, going on and on about the “handsome man” that she met in the tunnels, and how pretty his eyes were, and how sweet his voice was, and it honestly is making him go crazy.

He sighs as they come to the entrance of a small village, and gives it a look around. It’s a little past sunset, and not many people are about. The ones that are look at them briefly, then to their companions, and bustle away. The Duma Faithful are influential and powerful in these parts; the sight of an arcanist isn't unusual like it is in the south.

“What are we doing here?” Tatiana asks. “Are we going to rest?”

That’s normal for her to ask. Witches may not need as much food as when they were alive, but they do still need plenty of rest. She must be tired, having expended so much magic earlier, and then walked for so long, but he doesn’t really care.

“We’re going to keep walking,” he tells her. “But we need some supplies.”

She follows him as he strides into the village, curiously looking about. “Are we going to ask nicely?”

He frowns at her. “No. You’re just going to take it. Beat them around, if you have to.”

She looks surprised and points to herself. “Me? Why?”

She’s a pest, barely any more enlightened than a young child. Most witches are, but it’s annoying when they’re sentient and able to voice their ignorance. He hates dealing with them, so much, but then he looks at her and feels some calm. She’s beautiful. Not a bad companion to have, no matter how annoying she is. Hefty curves and a sweet face, and he lets his eyes rove over the dress he selected for her back in the caverns. Snug on her curvy hips, and a plunging neckline so he can have the best view possible. He's kept her alive for a reason.

The arcanist takes a deep breath and looks back to her face. “Because I don’t want to. And because you are capable.”

“Oh.” Tatiana looks around at the people cowering from them. “Um-”

He scowls and snaps his head over to a young man glaring at them. “You. Where do you keep your food?”

The young man glares at him, then looks down. The arcanist notices a small child clinging to his leg, staring curiously at him and Tatiana. A brat, and he sneers at her when she looks at him a little too hard. She flinches and shifts behind the man’s leg a little more, quietly.

“Not talkin’,” the man says after a moment. “Move along. We don’t have anythin’ against the Faithful, but we don’t have anythin’ to give either. Sorry.”

The arcanist scoffs. “None of you look to be walking skeletons. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of food in your winter reserves. Share a little with me and my lovely companion here.”

The man looks over at Tatiana, then back to him. “Capital ain’t far now, sir. Just a day’s walk. I’ll ask again, please keep movin’. I’m sure the chapel in the city will provide you with a good meal.”

“We want to eat now,” the arcanist says warningly. He looks over to Tatiana, who has bent down to pet a cat, of all the things she could be doing, and snaps, “Deal with this!”

The man takes a step back and rests his hand on the child’s head. His eyes flicker to Tatiana nervously as she looks over at him, but he doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t beg or plead, as she gets to her feet and approaches him. She walks quietly, a little menacingly, and the arcanist smiles. People are starting to flee, and they’ll get some peace and quiet around here.

Tatiana gets close to the man, lifts her hand, and then looks down. A little expression of surprise twists her face, and then she _smiles._ Both the arcanist and the man stare, baffled, as she crouches down to the eye-level of the child and pats her cheek.

“Hi,” she says. “You have pretty hair.”

“Tatiana!” the arcanist hisses. “I did not say to coddle them! I said to deal with this!”

But, she ignores him, continuing to stroke the child as gently she did the cat. “I also like your dress.”

The child smiles and comes out from behind the man’s leg. “Thanks. Your skin is pretty. I like that color.”

“Nonsense,” the arcanist spits under his breath, and he stalks past the man, who is still seemingly baffled.

There’s a large shed near a grove of trees, guarded by a man and a woman, and that should be what he is looking for. When the two get to their feet, brandishing shoddy spears at him, he snaps his fingers. A strong, sharp gust of wind comes through, ripping through them, and they collapse into piles of blood. He hears screaming behind him, but ignores it. When he looks behind him, back towards Tatiana and the villagers, the man is staring in horror, but she hasn’t moved. She is sitting back on her haunches, hands spread out while she shows the little girl a cluster of bubbles in her hands, and he scoffs at it.

There’s something incredibly wrong with this one. Nuibaba must have butchered the ceremony somehow. Yet, there’s nothing to worry about.

Father Jedah will fix everything.


	6. pages in a book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry no update in three weeks but uhhh School Sucks??

Zeke puts the poetry collection down and glances over at Tatiana, slumped against his shoulder, and watches as she traces a single finger over his chest. She looks a little out of it, quiet and pensive, and he frowns as he shuts the book.

“Tatiana,” he whispers. “Sweet Tatiana?”

“Hmm?” She looks up from his chest, and he immediately pushes his lips to the tip of her nose. She smiles, giggling as he turns his affection up to her eyelids, and sighs dreamily as she props herself up against his shoulder.

“I’m reading you romantic poetry,” he complains. “And yet, you ignore me. Precious, I’m wounded.”

“Awwww.” She cups his face in a hand and leans in, pressing a kiss to his lips before pulling back with a simpering smile. “Did I hurt your feelings, Romeo?”

Zeke tugs a hand through her hair. “I don’t do this every night, you know.”

“You should,” she tells him. “You’ve got a voice like silk, dearest. Melts my heart.”

Zeke opens the book and flips the pages, giving her a smile. “Perhaps I should move on to the more erotic selections? Would you enjoy hearing those in my ‘silken voice?’”

“Oh, I’m all aquiver just thinking about it,” she assures with a teasing lilt in her voice, and she puts her head back on his shoulder.

“Why weren’t you paying attention?” he asks again. “Normally you’re all awash with excitement when I read. You’re usually very interested.”

“I know,” she mutters, looking away with guilt in her eyes. “I was just thinking about something.”

Zeke shuts the book once more, but this time sets it off to the side. He wraps her up in his arms and kisses her on the forehead. “A silver mark for your thoughts, Tanechka?”

Tatiana sighs and slips her hand up to cup his face, but she still won’t meet his eyes. “Well, I mean… Sometimes I wonder.”

He turns his head to meet her fingers and offers them a kiss. “About what?”

“Are you happy here?” she whispers, so quiet that he almost doesn’t hear.

Zeke looks down at her, shock coursing through him. “Excuse me?”

She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face in his chest. “It’s a dumb question. But I wonder. And worry.”

He takes a deep sigh and sits up, grabbing her by the shoulders and dragging her with him. “You wonder silly things, darling.”

Tatiana frowns and reaches up to fiddle with a strand of hair. “I do not. It’s perfectly valid to wonder if your partner is really happy.”

“Have I made any indication of being unhappy?” he asks, genuinely concerned. “Tell me.”

She does that cute little thing he loves, where she refuses to meet his eye and looks into her lap with a trace of a pout on her lips. “No. I don’t think so.”

Zeke flops back down, letting her snuggle up to him. “Mystery solved. I am perfectly happy.”

Her fingers massage his chest, and she looks up at him. “But I’m- I mean, I’m not really special. You could go to the capital and have anyone you want. Some fancy noblewoman, you know? Instead, you’re stuck out here with some klutz who trips on flat ground. Don’t you ever think about, I don’t know, striking out? Going and reaching your full potential?”

“What a thing to say!” he says sharply, and she winces. He kisses her forehead by way of apology, then says in a softer voice, “That’s not true at all. You’re not the picture of courtly elegance or grace, that’s for sure, but- Actually, tilt your head towards me. Yes, just like that. You have a chicken feather in your hair.”

Tatiana blushes to her roots and throws a hand to the back of her head, fishing around her braid and pulling out what is most certainly a chicken feather. They both stare at it, and then she sighs and tosses it away while he bursts into laughter. She hides her face in Zeke’s neck while he quakes with hysterics, and he can feel the burn of her skin against him.

“Don’t laugh!” she cries. “It was my turn to get the eggs, so of course I have feathers on me.”

“Oh, sweetness!” Zeke grabs her chin between a couple of fingers as she pulls back, tilting her head up for a kiss. She sighs into him, a cute sound, and braces herself against his chest. Her hair brushes against his bare skin, tickling him, and he pulls back with a content hum after a few minutes.

“Never worry yourself over whether or not I am happy again,” he assures. “If you want to know, just ask. I assure you, sweet Tatiana, my answer will always be that I am in a state of constant delight, so long as I am with you.”

* * *

“Ezekiel! Ezekiel, wake up!”

Zeke’s eyes fly open. He sits up on his cot, gasping a little for air, and pulls his bangs out of his face. Somebody is slamming on the post of his tent, desperately trying for his attention. He stumbles up, shaky from the dream, and swipes the flap of the tent open when he gets close enough.

“What is it?” he asks Python.

Python shoulders his bow, gesturing to the camp, all hurrying about and loading things into caravans. “We gotta move fast. We-”

“Are we under attack?”

“No, no. The rocks that were blocking our path just suddenly collapsed. There’s a path now, but we don’t know for how long. We gotta get moving and get through before something weird happens again.”

A path is open? If that isn’t the best news he’s gotten in weeks. Finally, they can move past this awful, barren valley and advance towards the capital. Finally, they can move past this place where he is made to look at the collapsed cavern every day, the image of Tatiana coursing through his mind.

“Let me help with that,” Forsyth mumbles while Zeke is packing his tent. “Gods, what if those rocks come crashing down on us while we’re marching?”

“It’ll be fine,” he assures. “Unless this is some cruel streak of fate.”

“Let’s not imagine the gods being against us,” Forsyth says, quietly and fearfully.

Nobody talks as they finish packing up the camp, and nobody, save for those giving instructions as they pass through the valley, through the narrow passage they have been allowed, speaks. Zeke is silent as he rides alongside Alm and Mathilda, and he begs himself to not do it, but he can’t help it.

He looks back towards the caverns, a knot in his chest.

He thinks about the dream. The fond recollections. About how _happy_ he was. How ridiculously joyous he was, every day, reading her poetry and resting his head in her lap, letting himself be pampered like a housecat. He thinks about how wonderful it was, and he is angry with himself.

He was selfish beyond all compare. If only he had not fallen in love with her. If only he had just kept away from the village. He could have embraced his new status and left it behind, thought himself above all of it, and that would have kept Tatiana safe. If he had done the proper thing and put his desires behind him, the poor thing would still be alive and well, untouched by whatever horrors Nuibaba wrought upon her.

Zeke turns away, praying that he could turn back time.

* * *

The memory comes in fragments. Splatters. It’s not whole, or really comprehensive, but Tatiana likes it anyway.

The man cups her cheeks, tilting her head to the side to reveal more of her neck. His lips are soft and warm when he pushes them just below her jaw, and they curve into a smile when she giggles. His hair, when she cards her fingers through it, is soft, the color of pure gold, so beautiful. He is so beautiful, with dark, soulful eyes and a gentle touch.

“Stop it,” she laughs when he drags his lips to the center of her throat. “Stop it!”

The man’s hands go to her sides, dragging up her waist. “Ticklish, darling?”

She squirms, unable to help herself from hysterics when he digs his fingers into her side. “This- this isn’t- funny!”

“On the contrary,” he hums. “You’re so cute.”

She weakly tries to push him away. “No! No no no, stop, I can’t breathe!”

He relents after a moment, freeing Tatiana and watching as she heaves, trying to put herself back together. “Cute.”

And then the memory breaks and skips forward a little, and it leaves Tatiana wondering what happened after that. It’s like somebody has taken a page in a book and ripped it out carelessly.

Heat. That’s what she associates with the next fragment of a memory. Scorching heat, but not unpleasant, as the man holds her close. Hot lips that drag down her neck, over her chest, leaving behind bruising marks that he sweeps his tongue over. His fingers rove over her body, stroking her legs and tracing the curve of her hips. The memory is boiling hot as she locks her legs around his waist and drags his lips to hers. She holds him close, like he may disappear if she lets go. He gasps and pants against her, fingers clenched in her hair, and consumes her like wildfire.

Then somebody rips out more pages in the book. Tatiana wishes they hadn’t.

“Stay in bed,” she implores when the man stirs. Early morning light comes through the window, and it’s too early. “Pleeeeease?”

He grumbles and flops back down against the pillows. “Mmm. Temptress.”

Tatiana abandons the warmth of the blankets, inching towards him. She picks up the edge of the top quilt and pulls it up and over him, settling it over his bare chest. She brushes strands of hair out of his face, looking upon him fondly, and dips her head to give him a kiss on the tip of his nose. He’s exhausted after last night, clearly, and already drifting back to sleep as she smooths a hand over his head.

“Go to sleep,” she coaxes. “Stay here with me a little bit longer, treasure.”

Sleepily, the man grabs her hand, pulls it to his lips, and gives it a kiss. He clenches it tight and holds it to his chest, mumbling as he falls back asleep. He says something like, “Closer,” and she obliges as she curls up next to him. She fits well at his side, nestled nice and close, and feels as safe as safe can be when he drapes an arm over her. He holds her hand lovingly, like it is the most precious thing in the world, even though he’s mostly asleep.

She opens her mouth to say something, and then somebody takes a whole handful of pages and mercilessly tears them out.

* * *

Tatiana blinks her eyes open, instantly confused at something wet on her forehead. Hesitantly, she reaches up, and the word “sweat” comes to mind. But that’s odd. She… isn’t supposed to “sweat.” What even is “sweat?” How does she know what that is?

The even more unusual thing is the fact that her heart is racing, her mouth feels dry, and there’s a heat in the pit of her stomach. Feelings she does not recognize. Feelings. Feelings? Feelings. What are they? Anxiety? Delight? Joy? She looks at her shaking hand as she tries to figure it out, staring at the sweat on the tips of her purple fingers, and a jolt pulses through her.

Why is she _purple?_

Tatiana sits up, looking about at the forest scenery, heart pounding faster in what she recognizes now as fear. The arcanist is hunched over by the fire, stirring the embers, and gives her a pointed glance when he feels her eyes on him. She blinks, wondering for a moment why she is not in her home, why she is sleeping on the forest floor beneath the moonlight. She can’t figure anything out, and there is a slew of emotions pounding through her, violent and intense, screaming.

The man. The man, the man, the handsome man from the caverns. The one with the pretty eyes and strong, deep voice. The man, the man, the man, what is his name?

“Ezekiel,” she whispers, and she looks at the arcanist. He stares back at her, baffled as she says, “His name is Ezekiel.”

“What are you babbling about?” he snaps. “Well, no matter. If you’re awake, we should keep walking. We’re almost to the capital, and we’ll see about Father Jedah fixing you up.”

“Ezekiel,” Tatiana says more insistently, irritated that he is not catching her meaning. “The man in the caverns. I know his name!”

There is a stirring in her gut that is physically painful. Tatiana squeezes her eyes shut and clutches her stomach, the back of her neck heating, her breath coming in a short gasp when she thinks about him. Yes, she can see him in her mind now: Tall, muscular, handsome. A darling man with a calm and composed stare that always softens when he looks at her. Such nice lips, a perpetual crease to his brow, a calming aura. Strong arms that drape around her, pull her close, gentle fingers that tilt her chin up. Ezekiel, her beautiful Ezekiel, the love of her life, her-

“I know him,” she gasps, stumbling to her feet. “I want to go see him.”

The arcanist stares at her, uncomprehending, and then his cheeks turn dark blue. He narrows his eyes, and Tatiana realizes that he is angry, but she doesn’t know why. What is the harm in her asking to see that man? She just wants to hold him, and kiss him, and feel his lips against the skin of her throat.

“I want him,” she begs. Her legs feel weak as her heart races, and she has to lean against a tree. Her heart is racing with something odd, like desire or lust, but her stomach is flipping around in fear. She still doesn’t fully comprehend where she is. She still doesn’t really know why she’s purple. She doesn’t know why she’s so freakishly cold. “I want him!”

“Shut up,” the arcanist warns.

Her fingers scrape over the bark. “I want to see him!”

He crosses their little campsite in a few short strides, face a dark cobalt, and in the time that she blinks, he has a hand raised. She doesn’t even have time to flinch before it comes down, smacking her so hard that her head turns.

The book falls apart entirely, crumbling into a fire and burning.

Everything leaves Tatiana except the feeling of shock.

Trembling, she puts a hand to her cheek and looks at the arcanist. “Wh-?”

He grabs the collar of her gown in tight fists, shaking her. His teeth are bared, and her stomach is sinking, but she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know anything as the arcanist shakes her back and forth like a limp ragdoll, shrieking things that are almost unintelligible.

“Shut up!” he shouts. “Just shut up!”

“Why?” Tatiana asks quietly.

He shakes her hard enough that the back of her head smacks against the tree, but she doesn’t make a sound.

“Good girls shut up and do not speak when they are not invited to!” He is exploding, spewing with some feeling. He spits when he talks, and flecks of it land on her face, but her head is reeling from being smashed into the tree trunk. “And they only do what they are told when they are told to do it! Do you understand? Or are you too stupid?”

Tatiana blinks, starts to move her head, and then nods rapidly. “Yes. I understand. S-sorry.”

The arcanist sucks in a deep breath, slowly letting go of the collar of her dress. He smooths it down, and the way his hands drag over her chest leaves her feeling… something. Something kind of mucky. She doesn’t think that she likes it when he rests his hands low on her hips and pulls her a little closer until they’re pressed together, practically nose-to-nose, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t think she likes it when his hands rove over to cup her curves, but she doesn’t want to get hit again, so she shuts up.

“You’re a good girl, right?” the arcanist asks, slowly nodding. “Right?”

She jumps a little when he squeezes her, the mucky feeling getting worse, but mirrors him and nods. “I’m good. I- I’m a good girl.”

His eyes flicker down over her, then he pulls away. “Hmm. Keep your mouth shut, okay?”

To be honest, Tatiana doesn’t remember what it was she was saying before or what got him so worked up. She nods, very quiet, and then fixes the the creases in her dress herself. The arcanist didn’t do a very good job at it.

* * *

Tatiana follows the arcanist quietly through the capital. It’s the dead of night, and there’s hardly anyone about, but they move through the back alleys anyway. Their destination, the Chapel of the Faithful, looms in the distance, and he’s glad that, after so long of walking, they’re almost there. He’s had it with this defunctional witch, her stupid little feelings, the empty smiles and the complaining and everything about her.

If she wasn’t so pretty, he might have gotten rid of her a while ago.

Beauty and lust were likely all that had saved her earlier that night. The arcanist had contemplated smashing her head against the tree until she died, but then decided that it would take too long, and his arm would get tired, and that she is too lovely in any case. It would be a waste to let her die on the forest floor from a cracked skull when she still has so much to offer. He had considered, for a long few moments, helping himself when he’d held her close after beating the sentiment out of her.

But there is nothing more disrespectful than offering Father Jedah a freshly-defiled servant, and Father Jedah can always tell. So, he’ll wait a little longer, until the novelty of her being so shiny and new has worn off. That's what the arcanist always does.

“Keep up,” he snaps at Tatiana.

She rubs the back of her neck, quietly complaining, “But it hurts.”

He scowls, snatches her wrist, and drags her. “For the Father’s sake, you’re lucky you’re easy on the eyes.”

The chapel, dark and beautiful, looms over them. Tatiana looks up at it with an expression that he thinks might be anxiety, and that’s just one more flaw in her. In front of her Father’s house, she should not be anxious. She should not even be able to feel anxiety at all. She’s a damnable, broken, utter mess, but in a short amount of time, she’ll be fixed. The arcanist has never met a witch that Jedah has been unable to set straight.

He opens the doors and pulls Tatiana along. The interior is black marble, tall and sprawling columns, stained glass windows crafted with fine purples and reds. They depict Father Duma, standing tall and proud atop a pile of broken Zofian bodies. The Earth Mother lies prone at her brother’s feet, one of his boots planted firmly atop her head.

Tatiana stops to scrutinize the depiction, brow furrowed and head tilted. “That’s not right.”

The arcanist has learned to just not pay attention to what she says or to indulge her. He jerks her along, scowling and shaking his head.

A cantor escorts them to a room down the hall where Father Jedah is supposedly awaiting them. Already, the arcanist can hear shouting, screaming, and it’s not unfamiliar to hear. It’s often that Jedah shouts at his daughters, and after what the arcanist understands to be crippling failures at the border, it’s not surprising that the two of them are still being shouted at on the daily.

“Insolent wretches!” Jedah bellows, his voice filling the chapel as the arcanist opens the door. Hestia and Marla are on their knees in front of him, heads inclined towards the ground with blank stares.

“We’re sorry, Father,” Hestia murmurs.

“Not sorry enough!” Jedah steps on Hestia’s hand, crushing it beneath his shoe with an audible crunch of bone in the air, but his daughter doesn’t flinch. At this point, neither girl feels much pain anymore, and any injury inflicted on them by their father is mostly to make himself feel better.

“We’re sorry,” Marla echoes lifelessly. She looks up at her father, and then over towards them. Her eyes are lifeless and blank, not a flash of recognition in acknowledgement in them at all. Despite that, she says, “Oh, Father. Guests.”

Jedah removes his foot from Hestia’s hand, turning to observe them. The arcanist bows deeply, muttering, “Father Jedah, I have returned,” waiting to be acknowledged and put at ease.

“Ah. It’s been a little while. I thought you were dead,” Jedah replies easily.

His casual remark stings the arcanist, but he doesn’t show it. He only shakes his head, utters, “No, Father,” and waits. He hears Marla and Hestia get to her feet as their father slowly walks towards them. The heels of his shoes click through the empty room, and he stands close.

“What is this?” he asks. “This girl, behind you?”

“Hi,” Tatiana says.

The arcanist rolls his eyes, straightening up when Jedah urges him to do so. “Nuibaba’s final witch, Father Jedah. Her first and only sacrifice to Father Duma. She has great power. I’ve seen it.”

“Ahh. Nuibaba finally made a sacrifice to the War Father?” Jedah steps past, scratching at his chin, and observes Tatiana. “Hm. This dress is obscene. I’ve told _you_ in particular many times to not treat the War Father’s daughters with such crass disrespect.”

They’re only puppets, he wants to reply, but knows such talk could get his head blown off. He lowers his head and nods, then lies, “My apologies. It was all I had to dress her in. She was wearing nothing when I found her, wandering the woods.”

“I suppose it is better than nothing,” Jedah muses. “And you say she has great power?”

Tatiana looks between the two of them, nose crinkled in confusion. “What’s going on?”

Jedah frowns. “Sentient, I see. Like Marla and Hestia. Does she recall her name?”

“Tatiana!” she replies before the arcanist can say anything. “A really nice man told me that that was my name.”

The priest appears bewildered, so confused that he takes a step back. Tatiana seems to take this as an invitation to do as she pleases, so she walks straight past him, right towards Marla and Hestia. The arcanist sighs and moves to grab her, but Jedah holds out a hand to stop him.

“Who are you?” Tatiana is asking her new sisters. “Your clothes are so pretty! I love the color of your eyes. Just like mine!”

Jedah stares, then looks down at the arcanist. “What is this?”

The arcanist shakes his head, holding out his hands uselessly. “She’s defective, Father! It all started when she met this man, that rogue general, down in the caverns. She started talking about nonsense like a ‘heart’ and ‘feelings.’ She shouldn’t even be able to understand those things, much less speak of them.”

“She speaks of a heart?” Jedah bares his teeth, looking over his shoulder at the witches. “Nuibaba, what did you do? A mistake in the sacrifice, perhaps? That wench has never sacrificed a soul to the War Father in her life. She must have butchered the ceremony somehow.”

“She spoke like she was still human right before we got here,” the arcanist explains. “There is something deeply wrong with this one. I implore you to fix her, Father Jedah.”

Jedah narrows his eyes. “It would be easier to kill her, if she’s so defective.”

The arcanist’s gut twists, because there’s no pleasure to be found with a corpse. “No, no! She is powerful, Father. She commands water with such ease, such grace! She flooded an entire cavern without blinking. She is useful; only in need of some fine tuning.”

The priest sighs, eyes still fixed on Tatiana and his daughters. He appears disgusted when she takes their hands, chattering about something meaningless, and turns to the arcanist. “If she is as powerful as you say, I’ll agree to keep her under my observation. The Father knows we need all the powerful servants we can get.”

“Yes, yes, so true.” The arcanist puts his hands behind his back, pleased with himself for saving his toy. He’s put so much effort into dragging her back to the capital, and he’ll be damned if he lets her get killed so easily.

“You said that she encountered some ‘rogue general’ in some caverns?” Jedah asks.

“Yes. At least, I do think it was the rogue general. You know, the Emperor’s favorite. That amnesiac man. Have you not received word that he defected to the Zofian’s side?”

Jedah frowns deeply, stepping closer to Tatiana suddenly. “You. Face me.”

Tatiana lets go of Marla and Hestia, turning to Jedah with a curious expression. “Yes? How can I help?”

“Let me look at you,” he murmurs, scratching his cheek with a black claw. “Hmm. I see.”

Tatiana squirms under his gaze and the heavy silence, slowly turning back to Marla and Hestia. Jedah lets her, even offering her a quick, awkward pat on the shoulder before he walks away. He strides back towards the arcanist, walks past him, and out of the room. The arcanist follows, hurrying to catch up with him as he makes his way down the empty hall.

“What’s wrong, Father?”

“I recognize her now, I think from a ball. She is indeed acquainted with the former general Ezekiel. The little girl is his lover, if I’m not mistaken.”

“What?”

“Yes, yes, they were so very attached, if I remember right.” Jedah’s lip curls, some mixture of amusement and disgust. “She clung to his arm the whole night, even when Ezekiel spoke to the emperor. She’s a common village girl. She must have been stupefied by the glamor. How quaint.”

“How did she wind up a sacrifice to Nuibaba?” the arcanist asks. “Nuibaba generally respected authority. Why did the general not go after her? Why-?”

“Enough questions, fool,” Jedah snaps. He stops walking and glances back at the room. “That Ezekiel is pesky. The emperor fawned over him for a reason. He wields power far greater than any warrior in Rigel, or even in Zofia. He is… a sizable threat, as much as I hate to admit it, now that he marches with the Deliverance.”

The arcanist follows Jedah’s gaze, then looks up at him. His thin lips are turned into an easy smile, but his eyes are narrowed and speak of malice. The look sends delighted chills down the arcanist’s spine.

“So,” Jedah says, continuing their walk down the chapel halls. “We can use her to take him out of the equation. If he ever had any love in his heart for the wench, it’ll be more than easy to ruin him.”


	7. in the dead of night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, last update: sorry i haven't posted in three weeks  
> me, like nine months later: haha whoops
> 
> (this is a double-chapter update!! please be sure to read chapters 7 and 8 both. they were originally gonna be one chapter but i think the pacing works if they're split up, so,)

After walking for a week, the Deliverance comes across a small village right outside the valley. It’s nestled up against the curve of a hill, right off the beaten path, and a spacious clearing nearby is where they decide to break camp for the evening. Before anyone can lift anything out of a caravan, however, Lukas pauses everything and suggests, “Let’s go see if the nearby village is friendly or hostile. It wouldn’t do to have them snitch on us to the Rigelian army.”

“I’ll go with you,” Zeke offers. “I’ve never been to this area in particular, but I could try to exercise some sway, somehow.”

“Very well. Alm will accompany us as well.” Lukas seems to be contemplating on whether or not to bring the lance balanced in his hand, and then seems to decide against it. He leans it up against a caravan, looks to the saber on Zeke’s waist, and explains, “We don’t wish to seem overly hostile. I’m sure if any unpleasantness does break out, however, all we would need to rely on is you and that sword. You’re quite fearsome with it.”

Zeke tightens his grip on the pommel.

They walk into the village with Alm at the lead and Zeke bringing up the rear. He keeps a close eye out for any signs of aggression from the surroundings, but sees none. It looks like a smaller village, little more than a few houses; these are the types of places they are safest. The people in these places are the ones who want nothing to do with the war, and so long as they aren’t bothered or endangered they won’t do anything. They’re simple people with more loyalty to their families than their country, and Zeke respects that.

While they walk through, Zeke notices odd things. A small shed that he assumes is for rations and supplies, like the one in his and Tatiana’s own village, looks to be broken into. Yet, the door is not merely busted; nearly the whole front of it has been torn to shreds, as though a vicious and violent animal as large as a house clawed its way in. What leaves Zeke with the greatest feeling of unease, however, is that the wood is splattered with red that he knows to be blood.

Splattered. As though someone standing in front of the shed was sliced into so viciously that their blood sprayed all the way back.

Zeke looks away.

“Not a talkative bunch,” Alm mumbles to them, and he’s right. The people around them are staring warily, backing away, and some are even ducking into their houses. “That’s natural, but you’d think _someone_ would step up and speak to us.”

Zeke looks back to the bloody shack, catches Lukas’ eyes, and knows that they’re both thinking the same thing: Someone or something was here recently, and it wasn’t at all friendly.

“Hey, you three!”

He turns his head towards the source of the voice. Behind them stands a man, tall and dark-skinned, who looks more than a little wary. Zeke notices his eyes flicker down to the sword at his waist, so he pulls his hand away from it, putting his arms behind his back to try and communicate, at least a little, that he has no intentions of using it. He especially has no intentions when he looks down and sees a girl clinging to the man’s leg. She’s small, with a mane of red hair, and she has a bright and cute smile when Zeke waves to her slightly.

“Are you in some position of authority around here?” Lukas asks evenly.

“No. But I am curious ‘bout what fellows like you are doin’ wandering around my home.” The man rests a hand on the girl’s head, urging her behind him. “We don’t want trouble.”

Zeke’s eyes go back to the bloody shack.

“We don’t mean any harm,” Alm assures quickly. “We just-”

“You’re the Zofians,” the man guesses. His eyes are drawn back to Zeke. “You ain’t. Those clothes are Rigelian.”

Zeke doesn’t respond.

“We are the Deliverance,” Alm relents to say. “And we mean no harm at all. We just wanted to let you know that we’re pitching our camp near your village for a couple of nights.”

The man studies him. The girl peeks out from behind his leg and keeps staring at Zeke. Once more, he waves and smiles at her.

“If you don’t tell the Rigelian army we’re here, no harm will befall you,” Lukas advises. “If you don’t want trouble, it’s in everyone’s best interests that you don’t give away our location. Bringing the army here will only drag you and your village into the fighting, most likely.”

The man looks exhausted, as this is likely much more than he wants to handle. Despite it, he looks to the ground, then at the girl, and back at them. “Alright. I’ll spread the word. Not a peep out of us, so long as you don’t come near the village again once you leave. We ain’t got any food or any other handouts for you.”

No food.

“Does that have something to do with that scene over there?” Zeke asks, nodding to the shed. “That was food storage, wasn’t it?”

The man looks at it, almost like he’s scared. “Y-yeah.”

“Not the work of bandits,” Zeke continues. “Who did this to you? When?”

“A bad blue man!” the little girl suddenly says. “He came and hurt people and took a lot of the food last week!”

“‘Blue man?’” Alm echoes, bewildered.

“Arcanist, or perhaps a cantor,” Lukas assumes. “That would explain the state of the storage shed. They ripped into it with magic.”

“The Duma Faithful are nothin’ but cowards and thieves nowadays,” the man spits. “Killed two of our own when they were standin’ guard and walked over their bodies. Him and his little friend.”

“The lady was nice,” protests the girl loudly. “And pretty!”

“Witch,” Lukas once more guesses. “We are sorry for your hardships. Please, expect no further trouble from us. We just need a peaceful place to sleep for a night or so.”

The mention of a blue man and a witch is stirring Zeke’s stomach in an unpleasant way. He curls his fingers into a fist, thinks about whether or not he should speak, and then decides to. He opens his mouth and asks, “The woman. What did she look like?”

The man looks bewildered. The girl answers for him, exclaiming, “Beautiful! She had pretty purple skin, and her eyes were like- like full moons!”

“I see.” Zeke steps forward past Lukas and Alm, then takes a knee to bring himself closer to eye-level with the child. “What color was her hair?”

He doesn’t really want to know, but he has to. Already, he feels the pity emanating from Lukas and Alm in waves. The red hair ribbon he keeps in his pocket feels unnaturally heavy.

“Green,” she tells him. “Light green. It was long and wavy.”

His heart stops. His mouth is dry. He hears Alm say his name, but ignores him in favor of asking, “You said she was nice?”

“More tolerable than her master, at least,” grumbles the man. “If he’d just come in here pettin’ cats and chattin’ with my kid like the lady did, two of my pals would still be alive.”

Zeke doesn’t know what to say.

“You say she didn’t harm anyone?” Lukas asks in amazement.

“Not a soul. The man tried to sic her on us, but she just started rambling to Maisy here instead.”

“If he ordered her to attack you, then-” Alm trails off, lost in his own thoughts.

Then she should have attacked.

Zeke clenches his fist again, taking in a deep breath as he looks at the ground. He’s thinking, thinking, thinking, desperately wondering what this means, and then the girl speaks with concern in her voice, asking, “Are you okay? You look sad.”

In a daze, he reaches out and pats her on the top of her head. “I’m just fine, but thank you. Behave for your father.”

They leave the village after speaking with a couple more people, but the whole time Zeke is thinking of nothing but Tatiana. He dares to pull the hair ribbon out of his pocket, observing the scarlet silk for a brief moment, and then puts it back when Lukas speaks up.

“Witches are notoriously aggressive and bloodthirsty when ordered to attack by their handlers,” he says. “Right?”

Zeke ducks his head to the ground while they walk. He can hear the sounds of the camp setting us as they get closer. “I’m no expert on witches. Save for Nuibaba and her victims, they’re more common in the northern and eastern regions. Acknowledging their existence pained me… because I knew I couldn’t do anything for them at that point.”

“Yes. I myself feel some pity for them whenever I see them.” He notices the way Lukas clenches his fist while he stares straight ahead. “Never knowing if they willingly gave themselves up, or if they were sacrificed against their wills. Not knowing bothers me. I wonder if I am killing someone who was mad for power, or if I am killing a young woman who was victim to one such as Nuibaba.”

“It’s putting them out of their misery either way,” Alm mumbles tightly. “I don’t like thinking about it either.”

Zeke is of the same mind as Alm, but unfortunately, witches are all he’s been able to think of for a few weeks now. Whether or not they’re damned for eternity, or if there’s a way to save them. He suspects he’ll be thinking of them even more, now that he knows that Tatiana seems to have kept her fondness of children, a flicker of kindness and humanity, despite being ordered to attack. He’ll be thinking of her more and more with every second, wondering what kind of hellish limbo she’s stuck in, all because of him.

* * *

“Do you want to go out and do something fun?”

This new man, Father Jedah, who has been keeping a close eye on Tatiana for a few days, is an enigma. She is not in the business of thinking too deeply—doing so hurts her head and turns her stomach into knots—but she cannot help but try to think about him. There’s an air around him that makes her uneasy and wary; it gives her a feeling similar to the stained glass scene of Duma conquering Zofia and Mila in the center of the chapel. It makes her feel not right.

Jedah speaks kindly, though, and repeats his question. Tatiana turns away from the stained glass and stares up at him, unsettled by the rich, chilly blue of his skin. The black of his eyes is like an endless, cold void, but he speaks with a smile on his face, and he asks such a nice question, so she thinks she can trust him.

“Fun?” she repeats with a smile. “I do like fun. I think.”

“I’m certain that you do.” He reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder, slowly guiding her away from the altar. “Now, do you remember those people you fought in the cave a while ago?”

Her head is empty, just a void, and then the memory of four men comes to the surface. Tatiana pokes her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and squints ahead as she thinks harder and harder. The image of the handsome man strikes her the most prominently; she stumbles a little in her stride, but the hand on her shoulder tightens. The image of the man still burns strongly in her memory, and she thinks, for a moment, she perhaps recalls his name-

“Ouch.” Jedah’s nails dig into her bare shoulder, drawing blood. She looks down to the wound, repeats a dull, “Ouch,” and looks back up at him.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” he says, still wearing a smile. “You don’t need to.”

Tatiana squirms until he slackens his vice grip. Blood drips down her shoulder, seeping against the off-shoulder hem of her new dress. This one covers her up a little more, and she likes it: It’s a deep black that hangs from her shoulders, swathes of silk and velvet and lace that make her feel fancy. The front is still cut low, showing off an ample amount of her chest, but it is simply what she has become accustomed to. She just doesn’t particularly care for the way Jedah is getting her pretty new dress all bloody.

“I remember them,” she finally responds. “Why?”

“Do you want to see them again?”

Something in Tatiana’s gut swoops. She holds her stomach, wondering why it hurts. “They’re alive?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Would you like to go find out?”

He’s asking her so many questions. Giving her so many choices that don’t really feel like choices.

Tatiana’s head hurts.

* * *

Three days after they leave that village, the Deliverance comes under attack.

Many of their battles are planned and calculated—they scout out enemies ahead, break camp, and have strategy meetings. They are careful and intentional fights, designed so that they lose the smallest number of soldiers possible. The fight they are in now, however, is an ambush late at night, just when they were about to set up camp. They came all too suddenly, arcanists melting from the shadows, witches warping into their ranks, and cantors ambling in last of all. Terrors swoop in from above; Bonewalkers clatter around, swinging their swords aimlessly, and Gargoyles come screaming from the night sky.

It looks to Ezekiel like the image of hell.

“I don’t know if I would classify this as an attack by the Rigelian military,” he tells Alm. He grunts then, pulls his lance out of the chest of an arcanist, and immediately swings it into the side of a Terror. It clatters into a mere pile of bones, expelling a cloud of dust as it does so that makes him screw up his face and cough. The Terror doesn’t reform.

Alm bashes in the skull of a Gargoyle with his shield; it crumples, dead. “What makes you say that?”

Zeke feels danger from his right as the hairs on the back of his neck lift. He reaches out, grabs the edge of Alm’s armor, and yanks him along with him as he takes a step back. A streak of black magic from a witch flies past them; the tree it collides into bursts into purple flames for a brief moment, and then the tree simply vanishes. Alm shudders under his hand.

“The Rigelian military doesn’t officially hire arcanists or cantors,” he elaborates. “Any of the ones you’ve fought so far have simply been Faithful, tagging along with whatever battalions have been sent your way.”

Zeke is right—he knows he is. Throughout the swarm of bodies writhing on the battlefield, clashing against one another and spilling blood, he doesn’t see any archers, any paladins, any knights. Every enemy bears the symbols of Jedah’s Faithful in their frigid skin tones and robes colored like poison.

He hears a scream, distorted like it’s coming through water, echo from his left. He turns on his heel, a hand on his saber, but finds that a witch is already woefully close to him. His gut falls, and he frantically registers her features, but she is blue, not purple, and her hair is bright orange. Her eyes are wide and black like tar, her mouth open so wide in a shriek that he wonders if her jaw is not unhinged, and she is so clearly about to cause him harm, but-

But his hand falls from his saber, and he knows he can’t hurt her.

The witch erupts into purple flame as she casts a spell. His body is screaming at him _Move, move, move, you can still move,_ and he hears Alm cry his name, but he is frozen. He simply can’t imagine harming this poor girl, and maybe if he moves her spell will hit someone behind him, so-

“Sir Ezekiel!”

The witch is suddenly headless.

Mathilda’s Blessed Lance cuts clean through her neck. The purple flames disappear, her head thunks straight to the ground, and her body, formerly suspended in the air in flight, follows it unceremoniously into the dirt as well. Blood oozes from her severed corpse, black and thick like it’s congealed, and her head lolls until it just taps the toe of Zeke’s boot.

“Gods,” he breathes, and he takes a step back. Mathilda is already fighting again, racing past to skewer someone behind him, but he sees the look in her eyes and the clear idea of “ _Don’t do that shit again_ ,” that it communicates.

He feels sick. The witch had looked so inhuman and wicked in her final moments, but in death, with her severed head staring up at him, she looks like she couldn’t have been any older than twenty. Her eyes aren’t black now, but a green that has no life in it anymore. Zeke feels sick. He feels sick, and he can’t move that well, and he’s lucky that Alm and Mathilda are covering him and shielding him from the fight. He feels sick, and he wonders if this girl had a lover who would give anything to have her back.

Zeke is then struck with the horrible realization that Tatiana could be here, on this battlefield. She could be dead already. Her head could be rolling around the dirt until a raging horse crushes it under a hoof. She could-

A gargoyle swoops out of the sky at him, shrieking as it swings its scythe. Zeke grits his teeth, readjusts his grip on his lance, and takes aim. He waits until the right moment, and then throws it into the air, watching as it rips through one of the gargoyle’s wings. It shrieks, flaps helplessly, and then drops its scythe and falls. It’s on the ground for but a second before Forsyth shouts and brings his own weapon down, piercing it straight through the chest and ending it for good.

Why the Duma Faithful would attack them in the dead of the night is a mystery to Zeke. The dead of the night, out of nowhere, when as far as he knows, they’re nowhere near a Faithful chapel. He doesn’t know if there’s some sort of ulterior motive, or why Jedah personally would have a grudge against the Deliverance. It’s unlikely, but it could perhaps be some sort of act of vengeance for his followers that were killed.

Then again, Zeke has met Jedah, just once before. He didn’t seem like a man who would try for vengeance, especially not over the simple, meaningless lives of his followers. He seemed barely human, and vengeance, Zeke knows, is a very human act.

He fights, slicing his way through swathes of magic and fire. The hilt of his lance is burning hot with the heat of the spells flying through the air, and he feels like his hair has been singed at the edges in a few close calls. He fights, cutting down an arcanist, a cantor, an Entombed, another arcanist—he deliberately avoids any witches.

What feels like eons has passed, and the fight has thinned slightly, leaning in their favor now. Zeke shouts and buries the head of his lance into a Mogall, grimacing as it shrieks, flaps its tentacles helplessly, and a torrent of blood and clear, watery fluid comes bursting from the wound when he pulls back. It collapses to the ground, rolling in pain, and then stops moving after another moment.

He sighs, readjusts his grip on his lance, looks for his next target, and then hears, “Oh, hey you!”

Zeke whips around, a gasp caught in his throat, and Tatiana is standing so close to him, so sweet-looking. She has an arm behind her waist, another hand raised in a wave, brightly smiling directly at him. Save for the differences in her features, she looks no different than she would if she were wishing him well on his way to work. The striking color of her hair looks out of place amidst the midnight battlefield, dirtied with blood and limbs.

She’s beautiful.

“I thought I killed you,” Tatiana carries on. She puts a finger to her chin and appears baffled suddenly. “I think? I think I flooded that cave. You sure must be smart if you got out, huh?”

She’s dressed differently, in a dress that covers her much better than the last he saw her in. It bears resemblances to the clothing he sees other witches wearing, but is much more elegant, and made of fine fabric. She looks well, save for a bruise on her cheek that is barely visible against the color of her skin, and a bandage over her shoulder. She’s moving well, speaking well, like no one has harmed her save for those two things.

“Tatiana,” Zeke hears himself say. He clears his throat and says it again. “Tatiana.”

“That’s me!” she chirps. “And I think I kinda know your name. I was hoping- Oh, that won’t do.”

He hears the cry of an arcanist from his left. Before he can so much as move his feet, Tatiana snaps her fingers. A torrent of water appears from the ground, crashing into the arcanist and sending him flying a good fifteen feet into the air. He falls, somewhere very far away, and Zeke winces at the brutality of it all.

“That wasn’t very nice of him, you know.” Tatiana huffs and puts her hands on her hips. “Real mean!”

“He was- he was on your side, wasn’t he?” There’s a little flicker of hope in Zeke that _perhaps_ she has come to her senses, _perhaps_ she is fighting for them, _perhaps_ things can go back to normal now.

“‘My side?’” Tatiana echoes. She seems to be hunkered down on that concept, throwing it around her skull, and then admits, “I suppose so, but he tried to hurt you while I was talking to you. I punished him for having really awful manners.”

His heart falls. No dice. She’s still… _this._

“I was hoping to see you again,” she continues. She steps over the severed top half of another witch, coming closer and closer. “I really like you, but I’m not sure why.”

The battle dulls around him. He doesn’t hear it. He feels barely aware of what’s going on around him. He sees, in his peripheral vision, enemies approaching him, but Tatiana washes them all away, skewers them on the end of spears of ice, slices them in half. He doesn’t notice, and he wonders if she hasn’t put a spell on him to capture him completely.

No. This is just always the reaction he has had to Tatiana.

“You were so nice to me.” Tatiana steps closer, close enough that she can touch him. She does just that, reaching up and dragging the tips of her fingers over the embellishments of his coat. “I don’t think the master is that nice to me. He hit my head against a tree a lot. So I like you better.”

They hit her. That arcanist from the caverns hit her. Zeke adjusts his grip on his weapon.

“You called me ‘darling.’” Her fingers creep upwards, coming close to the fabric of his cravat. Her full-moon eyes bore into him, wide and without any emotion. The smile on her soft purple lips, however, suggests she is truly fond of him. “I liked that word. But I think I liked it because _you_ said it to me. Who are you?”

Briefly, he registers a witch at his left, but Tatiana washes her away, much more gently than she handled the arcanists and Terrors. His eyes dart back to her, and his tongue traces over his lips as he tries to figure out what to say in response to any of this. The fact that she knows him, somewhere deep down, that she is drawn to him still the way he is to her. The fact that she’s speaking like there’s some sliver of humanity left in her.

He opens his mouth, just barely gets her name out, and then the sound of a charging horse crashes through the silence his mind has created. He looks to his side, and there is Clive astride his mount, the point of his lance directed right at Tatiana. Tatiana’s hand falls away from Zeke, her smile leaves, and Zeke shouts, “Clive, don’t-!”

It’s too late. Clive barges in with a fierce cry, slicing at Tatiana, but she vanishes. She warps out of sight and reappears above them, spectral against the backdrop of the night sky, and Clive appears dumbfounded and terrified. He resistance is low, and he has never had good luck fighting witches before—Zeke doesn’t know why the fool decided now was an excellent time to try his chances. Perhaps he thought he was in peril and was trying to come to his aid.

“Damn you,” is likely what Clive was trying to say, but Tatiana falls, alighting delicately on his still-outstretched lance, and bends over to put her face right into his. He’s speaking, but she cuts him off with, “I don’t like you at all,” in the chilliest voice he has ever heard leave her, and she lifts a hand.

“Tatiana, no!”

“Bye,” she says, and the air grows very cold, and Clive looks terrified, and then there is a chunk of ice sticking out of his gut and his blood on the ground.

Clive falls from his horse.


	8. boiling point

In the distance, throughout his own haze of panic— _ Tatiana has just murdered Clive Tatiana killed someone Tatiana did this _ —Zeke hears Clair scream in the skies. She comes diving from above, a righteous fury in her lance. Tatiana looks up at her, still blank-faced and cold, and lifts her hand again. Clair does not budge, and the wind from the flapping of her pegasus’ wings starts to push against Zeke.

He moves this time. He reacts. He has to protect Clair and Tatiana both. He drops his lance and makes a dive for Tatiana, wrapping her up in his arms and throwing off her aim just in time. The ground at the base of their feet freezes solid, and Clair swoops overhead, having clearly changed direction the moment she saw Zeke moving. She dives down again into the chaos, though she grabs the limp body of her elder brother this time, then flies away. Her squad covers her as she moves through the skies with her wounded, and Zeke sighs with relief.

“They wanted to hurt me,” Tatiana whispers in a small, chilly voice. She puts her hand over his own, and he slackens his grip on her. “So I hurt them back.”

“This isn’t like you,” Zeke protests. Tatiana squirms against him, but he pulls her closer to his chest. “Stop it!”

“They wanted to hurt me!” She shouts it this time, writhing harder, but she doesn’t use any magic on him. “I didn’t do anything and they wanted to hurt me!”

He can’t deny that it was self-defense, and that really, Tatiana hasn’t hurt anyone in the Deliverance before this as far as he knows, but-

“You can’t! You can’t hurt people!” he argues. “Listen to me!”

Her attitude has taken a complete 180. She bucks like a wild animal now, fear coming off of her in waves, her breath coming quickly. “Get off! No!”

Zeke is starting to panic himself. He holds her tighter, wishing the embrace was more of a hug than a deathgrip. “Tatiana, just come with me! I promise, please, I  _ promise _ I’m going to help you get better!”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” she shrieks, and she starts kicking and clawing at his arms. “Get off, don’t grab me! I don’t like you anymore!”

He knows this isn’t really her, that this is some- some warped, broken shell of his Tatiana. The witch screaming in his arms, reminiscent of a child having a tantrum, isn’t really Tatiana. Her words shouldn’t sting him, but they do. He’s holding her, finally, and it isn’t really her and she’s saying such awful things, and now that he’s aware, he can see the piles of dead bodies littered around them. She’s killed everyone who has approached them, and even if all of them but Clive have been arcanists and Terrors, he is still horrified.

Can she go back to normal?

“Off! Off! Off!” Tatiana stomps at the ground, writhing, and then her voice becomes almost  _ normal _ as she shouts, “Ezekiel, let me go!”

He does. Zeke lets her go in an instant, unwrapping himself from around her, and stares at her in shock. Tatiana hunches over, gasping and panting, and claws a little at her temples. She looks dizzy and confused, and she blinks rapidly before looking up at him. He thinks, if only for a moment, he sees a little lucidity in her inky eyes.

“Your name,” she breathes. “That’s you. I do know you…”

He shies away from her as well, wondering what kind of outburst will take hold of her next. She went from fawning over him like he was her fondest dream to a murderous, screaming mess. For all he knows, she could go from confusion into anger again, and he doesn’t really know if there’s enough Tatiana left in her to stop herself from doing to him exactly what she did to Clive.

“I know you,” she mutters. More rapidly, she yanks her fingers over her forehead, her face, through her hair, maniacally. “I know you, I know you, I know you, why?”

“You do know me!” he calls out. “I know you! Tatiana, just reach a little deeper.”

She hesitates, shying away from him back towards the last remnants of the fight.

Zeke panics, wondering if she’ll throw herself into the thick of the battle and get herself hurt, or wreak havoc, and shouts out, “I’m so sorry I grabbed you! I just- I just didn’t want you to hurt Clair or get hurt!”

Tatiana pauses, dithering. Her fingers are stuck in her now-tangled hair, and she looks woefully confused. “You’re sorry? Really? You weren’t trying to hurt me too? You’re really sorry?”

Her mind is so unstable, and it terrifies him. His Tatiana was always sharp and aware, always thinking and so emotionally complex and vivid, and now her way of thinking seems to shift constantly. It’s choppy, inconsistent, basic, almost like that of a child. After most of her very essence has been stripped from her, though, why is he surprised that she’s so peculiarly simple?

“I won’t hurt you,” he says. Keeping eye contact with her, he bends down and gently puts his lance on the ground. Tatiana watches, still oozing panic, and starts to move towards him again. Her posture is stiff, and she’s still hunched over, fingers tangled in her hair. He coaxes her forward, murmuring, “That’s it, I won’t hurt you. Come closer, my sweet.”

“Ezekiel,” she mutters absently. “Ezekiel, Ezekiel.”

“You know me,” he gently reminds her. He holds out a hand, waiting for her to grab him instead of the other way around. She doesn’t seem to have an issue with contact, so long as she’s initiating it. After what she said about getting beaten, and what with the bandages and bruises on her, he doesn’t blame her for that.

“Ezekiel,” she mumbles again. She pauses just a few feet away, twiddling her thumbs, and mumbles, “Zeke?”

His heart flutters. It’s undeniable that Tatiana is still in there, whatever that means. “That’s right. That’s the name you gave me. You said it was cute.”

“Cute.” She narrows her eyes, chewing on that word. “You…”

Zeke steps forward, more insistently holding out his hand. “Come here. I won’t hurt you, and I won’t let anyone else do bad things to you anymore.”

He feels too much like he’s coaxing a wild, unruly horse for him to be comfortable talking to her like this. It seems to be working, though, and she shuffles forward a little more, slightly reaching out.

“Paws off, lady!”

Zeke hears the sound of a bowstring being drawn, an arrow flying, and just barely sees Tobin galloping past. His first arrow misses Tatiana by a large margin, thumping into the back of one of the last Cantors on the field; she still hisses and shrinks away. Zeke snaps his hand back and turns to Tobin, exasperated that someone else is interfering again when he’s making progress, and is horrified to find he’s circled back around and is loosing another arrow just as he opens his mouth to tell him to stop.

This one doesn’t look like it’s going to miss Tatiana.

He doesn’t think, like he normally does. He just moves, like he did when Clair was diving upon Tatiana, and grabs her. He hears her shriek with clear protest at being grabbed aggressively once more, but he ignores her, curls around her, and turns his back away from Tobin and the arrow.

It thunks solidly into his back, and agony blazes through his body.

He cries out in pain through gritted teeth, and Tatiana immediately stops squirming. The strength leaves his arms; he lets go off Tatiana, and she scurries away, hands clasped against her chest as though she’s trying to still her beating heart. His knees feel weak, and as he drops to them, he hears Tobin shout, “Sir!”

His coat is thick enough that it blocked the arrow, to some degree. It’s not buried in as deep as it could have been, but it’s still lodged uncomfortably below his shoulder blade, and burns like all hell. He grimaces, gasps, and grips a knee to fight the pain.

“You- you- Why?” Tatiana skitters around, then looks towards Tobin with that same cold expression she gave Clive and Clair. “He wanted to hurt me.”

Zeke grits his teeth and holds out a hand. “No! Don’t you lay a hand on that boy, Tatiana!”

She turns her eyes down towards him. “He wanted to-“

She’s cut off when Zeke wobbles, and his other knee buckles. He just barely catches himself and stays upright, but Tatiana looks… scared. Not because of the group of Mathilda, Forsyth, and Gray moving in on them, clearly concerned, but because of him. Because he’s in pain. It looks like she’s been rattled more deeply than before.

“I know you,” she says again. “I know you.”

A pained puff of air leaves him in response. The bite of the arrow is pounding through his muscles, and he feels his clothes starting to stick to him from the blood. Tatiana moves towards him, so slowly, and reaches out a trembling, purple hand. She comes ever closer, and finally, the tips of her fingers touch his cheek, skin-on-skin, and she is freezing cold.

Tatiana jerks away as though she’s been burned, gasping as she recoils from him. Zeke grunts and stands, trembling, not knowing if he should reach out to her or not. She’s wobbling and shaking, holding her head, and moaning low in her throat as though she is suddenly pained.

“Tatiana!” Zeke stiffens suddenly as the arrow bites into him deeper. “Gods, damn-“

“Zeke,” she whispers. “I know- Of course I know-!”

“Restrain her!” comes Mathilda’s voice. “Don’t harm her!”

Zeke jumps and makes the mistake of reaching out with his wounded side of his body. He grunts, but manages to shout, “Don’t touch her! She’ll hurt you!”

Forsyth and Gray stop their approach and quietly back away, back towards Mathilda.

“She’s confused. Something happened when she touched me,” he says. “Give her a moment.”

“I don’t like this,” he hears Alm mutter. “Zeke, back off! You’re hurt!”

Yeah, sure, the arrow sticking out of his back hurts, but it’s not going to kill him. He ignores Alm and takes a step forward, waits to gauge her response, and takes another step when she doesn’t move back. She’s still doubled over and shaking, and she might not even know he’s moving in.

“Tatiana, are you okay?” he asks slowly. “What happened?”

She cries out suddenly and squeezes her head. “Hurts! Hurts, hurts, hurts!”

He can’t fathom why making skin-to-skin contact with him might hurt her. He slides his foot across the bloody dirt where Clive fell, swallowing heavily. He’s close, and she looks up at him when he’s only three feet away from her. There is a wobble to her lips, and her eyes are so wide he can see bright purple rimming them. She stares at him silently, and then opens her mouth and whispers, in a raspy, trembling voice:

_ “What did she do to me?” _

His heart stops.

“Zeke!”

The cry of him name comes from Alm. Zeke snaps his head to the side, and he finds himself faced with a burst of black magic in the distinct shape of a screaming skull. He swears and steps back, letting it pass between him and Tatiana, and thinks he is safe-

-but the spell grazes him, just barely, and suddenly his whole body is numb and weak.

Zeke falls to his knees again. Breathing is labored, and the sting of the arrow in his back hurts a dozen times more than it did. He grits his teeth and tries his best to not fall right over into his side, but his balance is slipping. Tatiana shrieks and looks down at him, still wild-eyed, and he thinks she’s moving to touch him again. Before she can, though, there’s a burst of magic next to them, and an arcanist with cold blue skin warps in.

It doesn’t take long for Zeke to recognize him as the arcanist from the caverns. The battlefield is scarce now, and he’s bloody and bruised as testament to the waning fight. There is a thick wad of congealed blood dripping from his nose, and a thick patch of it spreading over his sleeve.

He scowls and snaps a hand out, gripping Tatiana’s wrist, and yanks her towards him just as she scurries backwards in terror. Zeke protests this with a sharp yell and a hand on his saber, but he’s so weak from that spell that all it takes is a firm kick from the arcanist to knock him over. Tatiana makes another sound of pain, vocalizing quite well what Zeke feels as he lands on his more injured side.

“Why isn’t he dead?” the arcanist spits. “You stupid bitch!”

Tatiana tries to yank her wrist away; the arcanist digs his nails in, drawing black blood that drips down her forearm. “Stop!”

A lightweight javelin comes flying through the air towards the arcanist, carefully aimed by Faye from above. He knocks it out of the way without touching it with a wave of his hand. It slams with a thunk into the ground next to Zeke’s head, and he grimaces as he stares at it. He looks back up to the struggle between Tatiana and the arcanist, hoping against hope that the strength will come back into his body and allow him to do something.

“Let go!” she shrieks.

He pulls her towards him. “We’re retreating! We’re outnumbered, and I’m not about to go back to Father Jedah by myself, you dolt! We’ll have to explain to him that you ruined everything.”

Tatiana cries almost pitifully. “But I didn’t even do anything! I don’t want to go anywhere! My head hurts!”

The arcanist sneers, reaches up, and grips a fistful of her hair. He shakes her ruthlessly, and when Lukas comes charging in, blows him back with a sweep of his hand. Zeke digs his fingers into the ground, begging his body to move as he helplessly watches the arcanist brutalize her.

“Tramp, I should’ve just killed you when I had the chance!” he spits. He yanks her hair, wrapping it around his hand to pull her close while she cries loudly in protest. “You were entertaining for a day or two, but you’ve been nothing but a pain in my side since! I should’ve left you to wander the witch’s woods by yourself. I should’ve let the Terrors have you! You’d be dead without me, and what have you done to repay me?”

Tatiana attempts to yank away. “Get off!”

Zeke gasps through his pain and reaches out a quavering arm to Faye’s discarded lance. His hand wraps around the wooden hilt, but he can find no strength in him to yank it from the dirt, or even use it to help himself up. He’s starting to find it hard to even look up at Tatiana, the arcanist, the Deliverance soldiers doing their best to help and failing. He can’t do anything, and he’s starting to panic. His chest is closing up, his breath is coming quicker, and this is just like when they took her, the last time he saw her when she was her, his vibrant and heavenly goddess, his pride and joy, his everything. He can’t do anything.

“Unhand her, fiend,” he spits. “I’ll take your head off with my bare hands if you don’t release her!”

The arcanist stops pulling her towards him and looks down at Zeke’s prone form. “Listen, I’m going to deal with you in a minute, O Great General. Just sit there and enjoy watching me discipline your whore a little before I-”

Zeke’s temper snaps. He grips the shaft of the lance hard, hears a sharp  _ snap!, _ and feels the wood splinter against his hand. “I will  _ fucking kill you.” _

The arcanist takes a step back.

Tatiana is fighting even harder now, screaming in anger and fright, both hands clawing into the arm the arcanist grips her with, and she frees herself after she digs her nails in hard enough. He hisses and releases her, then lashes out and smacks her away. Tatiana cries out as the back of his hand whips across her face, and she stumbles back, closer to the gathered soldiers of the Deliverance watching helplessly. Her shoulders hunch forward, heaving, and she hangs her head. Her mess of tangled green hair drapes around her, but Zeke can still see the anger in her convulsing frame.

“Would it kill you to be a good, obedient, mindless little witch for once?” the arcanist asks lowly. “Like all the other ones I’ve had? They were all so sweet and good, and they did everything I wanted, no matter  _ what _ it was. They were so…  _ pleasurable _ to work with, and you-” His voice grows in volume now, and he stomps his foot with each word. “Just! Won’t! WORK!”

Silence drapes over the clearing. The fighting has stopped—the ground is littered with the corpses of witches, arcanists, cantors, piles of bones and the rotting tentacles of Mogalls. It is so quiet that Zeke can hear the heavy, labored sound of Tatiana breathing. The splintered wood of Faye’s lance digs into his hand, but he refuses to let it go. He holds it harder, even, as he watches her raise a limp, tense hand.

“People keep trying to hurt me,” she says quietly. “That man on the horse. The girl in the sky. That boy with the arrows. Father Jedah. You.”

The arcanist huffs. “Oh, shut up! I don’t care how powerful that bastard witch Nuibaba made you, you’re still-“

At the mention of Nuibaba, Tatiana screams, once more,  _ “What did she do to me?!” _

Silence falls on them again. Tatiana looks wild, panicked, and though she speaks surely of Nuibaba, Zeke doesn’t know if she’s really herself, lucid or aware of her situation. Rather, he thinks she simply knows, deep in her core, who it was that unmade her.

The arcanist looks increasingly nervous, surrounded by the corpses of his fellow Faithful, the Deliverance, and seems to understand that he no longer has Tatiana’s loyalty. It makes Zeke feel a little smug through his rage when he hears a quiver in his voice. “We’re going back. Put that hand down, you beast, and stop screaming.”

“What am I?” Tatiana is mumbling, a crazed chant. “What did she do to me? What am I? What am I? Who are you? Who is he? What am I? Who am I?”

“Shut up!” The arcanist’s own temper snaps, and he makes a sharp, sudden move towards Tatiana. “I’m going to-”

Tatiana snaps her face up from the ground, a fury the likes of which Zeke has never seen pulling it tight. Her hair floats around her, as though she is underwater all of a sudden, and slowly, slowly, she curls her palm shut.

The arcanist stops too suddenly for it to be of his own design.

Zeke all of a sudden recalls reading something in a book once.

“I don’t like you,” Tatiana says tightly.

The arcanist fidgets in place uncomfortably, and his voice starts to rise in panic.

A book he idly picked up in a bookstore in town when on a shopping trip.

“Stop hurting me.”

The arcanist is shouting now, his anger shifting to raw fear.

He had shown it to Tatiana. She always loved fun facts.

“I don’t want to see you again.”

He shouts, begging now, trying to flap his arms, but he is frozen completely.

The human body, that book said, is hypothesized to be about 50% to 70% water.

Tatiana unfurls her hand.

Heat pours into the cold night air. Zeke gasps and shuts an eye, turning his face half-away from the outpour. The arcanist is still for a moment, blinking, lips quivering, and then his eyes go wide. His lips part, and faint cloud of steam comes rolling out, followed by a scream that shakes Zeke to his core. The arcanist’s skin erupts, tearing to release clouds of steam and reveal his flesh, which starts to sear and turn bright red. He is wild, howling, clawing at himself, screaming for his life as he boils to death from the inside.

A puddle of water collects at his feet, and from it bursts a column of steam, enveloping the arcanist and releasing more heat. Zeke breaks into a sweat and feels his own skin burning from his close distance, and he hears his comrades shouting for each other as they flee from the horrific scene. It’s loud, so loud, as the Deliverance retreats, as the arcanist screams ever louder through his slow and agonizing demise, and yet, through it all, Zeke hears Tatiana sobbing loudly.

After twenty awful, humid, scorching seconds, it stops. There is still the clamor of the Deliverance, but no more screaming from the arcanist. Tatiana is still crying, standing in the same place right in front of the arcanist’s boiled, burned body crumpled on the ground, and is scrubbing her hands over her face and clawing at her temples. Zeke gasps, shakily uncurling his hand from the broken lance, and puts it against the ground as he tries to stand.

“Tatiana,” he has barely said before she screams again, doubling over and stumbling around. She might be screaming “no” over and over, but he can’t tell. She looks purely agonized, convulsing as she wobbles around the carnage. Zeke forces energy into his body, ignores all of his pain, and pushes his upper body off of the ground.

No sooner has he done so, however, before the space around her starts to bend and waver. He squints, baffled, and just as he shouts, “No, stay!,” there is a brief flash of light. Tatiana has warped away.

Zeke is in nothing but pain, horrified, and the air reeks. He stares at the boiled lump of flesh and soggy clothes a small distance away from him. He feels his breath stop, and then his stomach tighten and flip, and he starts breathing faster, faster, faster. The stars and moon in the sky are spinning and blurring, Luthier is yanking the arrow out of his shoulder, Silque is rolling him onto his back. His stomach aches from hyperventilating, and he feels like he’s  _ dying, _ like everything is fading, like Silque’s voice instructing him to breathe slowly is coming through water.

Zeke sees the foggy blur of the night sky and smells burned meat before he blacks out.

* * *

Tatiana’s head hurts. She didn’t think anything could hurt so bad. She didn’t know that touching that man— _ Ezekiel, Zeke _ —would make her feel like a streak of lightning had split her in two. His skin, the smoothness and heat of it under her fingers, was bliss for  _ only _ a moment before the agony.

She didn’t do anything to anyone at first. She’d gotten to the battlefield with the master, and had the orders to take care of the man, but didn’t want to. She was just talking to him, and then the man on the horse tried to hurt her, and then the nice man— _ Zeke, Zeke, that’s Zeke! _ —had grabbed her so suddenly, and she had thought he was going to hurt her too. But he apologized, and Tatiana doesn’t recall anyone ever apologizing to her before. It had been nice. It made her feel like she could like him again.

So Tatiana had touched him, just barely, after he grabbed her again and- and  _ protected _ her? The arrow, that would’ve hit her- He held her, protected her, and all she had wanted was to touch him a little to see if he was fine, and her head has been throbbing nonstop since then. She barely recalls anything—she recalls the master screaming and grabbing her and hurting Zeke, and she recalls being angry. So angry it hurt.

Tatiana recalls killing the master, and she doesn’t regret it.

She falls to her knees in the middle of a forest, not knowing exactly where she is. The pain had been so agonizing after she killed the master, and she deduced that it could only be because of her proximity to Zeke. She’d warped in a panic and a hurry, and now she’s just somewhere else. She hears owls hooting around her, the scurry of night creatures in the underbrush, and leans over until her nose is almost touching the ground. Tatiana sinks her fingers into her hair, clutching her head, and cries as the pain threatens to split her skull in half.

She sees moments, darting into her mind before blurring away, right before she can take the opportunity to grab at them. Pained, she rocks back and forth, begging everything to just stop and leave her alone, to give her just a few moments to pull herself together and figure out who she is, what she is, why anything at all is happening to her.

Tatiana sees a prone, limp figure of a man lying on the soft white sand of a beach, bloody and dying. His face is pale when she comes closer, and he murmurs something she doesn’t know.

The image fades away.

Tatiana sees the same man, holding her hand and blushing bright red, right to the tips of his ears, clumsily yet sweetly telling her over and over how he adores and admires her, how he wants to be with her, if he can kiss her.

The scene bursts into static.

Tatiana sees the waves curling on the shore, leaving behind delicate foam as they pull away, while she walks with him. His boots are in his hands, and she carefully walks in the footprints he leaves behind. He looks back at her, amusedly making some comment about their drastically different sizes.

The moment vanishes.

Tatiana sees snow around her, her own blood on the ground, and Zeke is shouting and begging, held back by a man in red armor with a disdainful sneer. He’s begging for her, for Tatiana, imploring with a desperate tone of voice she’s never heard her lover use before to just leave her be; hasn’t the war made her suffer enough already? He’ll do whatever they want, he promises.

“That you will,” a chill voice replies smoothly. “This will only ensure that, General.”

She is on the ground, held up by someone holding her hair. She looks up, weak and dizzy, and the face of Nuibaba—gaunt, inhuman, terrifying—grins back down at her.

Tatiana screams  _ (“No! No! No!”) _ and bashes her head against the ground.

And then, so suddenly, Tatiana is just… somewhere else: Rolling plains with brittle brown grass, and heavy, mucky fog hanging low to the ground. The sky above is gray when, trembling, she looks up, as though there’s a thick storm brewing above. Occasionally she sees a bright flash of white light, like some sort of odd, silent thunder booming through the clouds. The only sound she hears, however, is howling wind that whips her hair and dress into a frenzy, and a sound that sounds like a massive beast roaring in misery.

Tatiana gets to her feet, shaking, and realizes she is herself again.

She knows exactly who she is. She knows exactly what happened to her. She can remember a time she fell out of a tree as a child trying to impress the other kids, she can remember her cleric training, she can remember finding Zeke, she can remember Nuibaba telling her Zeke was  _ dead. _ She can remember Nuibaba chaining her up and throwing her into the water. She can remember drowning. She can remember dying.

And Tatiana doesn’t know what to do.

She takes a step forward, crunching dry grass underneath her shoe, and then winces back when she sees a massive, writhing figure silhouetted in the fog. Her advance quickly turns into a retreat, and she stumbles backwards so fast that she falls. She hits the ground with an “oomf!,” shakes her head, and looks up in mute terror as the beast moves towards her.

Yet, it does something strange. It spreads its wings and beats them, blowing away the fog slightly and nearly knocking Tatiana back, but it seems to her like it  _ shrinks. _ It hunches over and cries, and then seems to disappear for a moment. Seconds later, a shape rises upwards in the fog again, unfurls its wings from around itself, and starts to moan horribly again. This repeats, over and over, as the beast slowly advances on Tatiana, and she finds herself too fascinated to move.

When it gets close and clearer, and she starts to make the large shape out as that of a  _ dragon, _ she hears murmuring. A man, it sounds like, with a deep and mournful voice that is distorted, muttering, “Where am I? Where am I? Where am I?”

Tatiana blinks and narrows her eyes, squinting as the dragon fades into something smaller again. She sees the silhouette of a large, bulky man, clutching his head and stumbling. His voice sounds clearer now, and he is still muttering, but Tatiana’s heart stops when she hears him say this time, “Mila… Mila, where are you? Help me, my sister…”

The wind whips around Tatiana as she slowly, slowly stands. The man comes through the fog, a mere fifteen feet away from her, and she calls out, softly, “Father?”

Tatiana stumbles back as he convulses, great wings spreading from his back and enshrouding him. When they pull away, he is once more a dragon, decaying and dripping rot, but Tatiana can think of nothing else he could be but- 

“Father Duma!”

“Who are- we?” Duma’s voice booms haltingly and echoes in the surrounding fog. He spreads his wings and blinks, looking down at her and focusing. “You- you-!”

“It’s you, right?” Her voice quivers, and she takes a step closer. “F-Father?”

“You-!” He becomes a man once more and gets to his feet, shaking. The clanking of armor echoes over the wind as he walks towards her. “One of- mine-! My children!”

Tatiana feels whole here in this place. Her mind is clear, and she knows who she is: A saint, a holy woman in his service. She knows that. She knows this is her god, and he is suffering. “Yes, Father, I am!”

Even as a man, Duma looms over her the closer he gets; Tatiana feels dwarfed by his size. “Y-you… I did- this- to you…”

She looks down at her hands, all aquiver, the shade of the lilacs in the church’s garden. When she looks up, she sees only pain and misery on her god’s rugged, mournful face. “Father, oh- I know you didn’t mean to! I know you’re hurting; I hurt too! I know you didn’t want to- to-”

“Why-?” he gasps, reaching out for her. Tatiana stiffens as he clamps his large, gauntlet-covered hands over her biceps. “Why did I- did I eat?”

She feels cold down to her core.

“Power- This isn’t strength!” He shakes her back and forth a little, and his eyes are wide with clear panic. “Don’t they- see that? This wasn’t what- what your father wanted for you! Any of you!”

“Father-!”

His eyes are bloodshot and wild, and Tatiana chokes back a shriek as his face begins to sag, turn a mucky blue-gray, and then melt back into the same goop of his dragon form. “Why won’t they stop? Why won’t they let me rest? I don’t want to _eat_ _anymore!”_

“Why am I here?” Tatiana implores. “I-if I go back, am I going to be like  _ that _ again? Father!”

His melted flesh drips off the bone and flops onto the ground. He trembles, such pure fear in his eyes, and says, “Daughter, _help me.”_

* * *

Tatiana comes to, panting and gasping on the forest floor as she writhes in pain. She still hurts, but less so. Her head isn’t pounding as badly, but it is now full of unpleasant images of a goopy, armored man grabbing her and begging her for help. She moans, shutting her eyes as she tries to remember what happened to her, but she doesn’t recall anything but the wind and fog. The images in her mind from before she collapsed are nearly completely gone, but she, unfortunately, is hanging onto the mental image of the scary woman with horns.

It’s dark, and it’s cold. The master is gone. She doesn’t know where she is. Tatiana curls up and whimpers as she wraps her arms around herself. She feels numb, and doesn’t know if she has any strength in her body to rouse herself with. She wonders if she’ll simply lie here until a wolf tears into her. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything, and it hurts her head to think.

Minutes pass, and then she hears the sound of warp magic and sees the glow of its light in the corner of her vision. Weary and still short-of-breath, Tatiana looks up and sees long, black boots, stretching up the purple legs of one of her new friends. Hestia looks down at her with a tilt to her head and a pout to her lips, like she’s confused.

“Little one,” Hestia whispers. “Can you stand?”

Tatiana curls up tighter and shakes her head.

Hestia clicks her tongue. “Poor little thing. It’s going to be just fine now. I’m going to take you back to Father, and he’ll make you all better. Lie still.”

_ Father,  _ Tatiana repeats in her head, even as Hestia leans down and puts a hand on her arm. She feels the charge of familiar warp magic around her and swallows, trying to focus on the strange, armored man in her recent memory.

_ Father. _


	9. object

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys a huge depression wave/emotional breakdown punched me in the throat and work is officially going to be Super Super Busy until November starting on Monday..... but i really want to get this done so im persevering. enjoy the chapter! i don't think it's the strongest or most interesting one but it's just kinda padding into the next part

Nobody really wants to listen to Zeke, which he is admittedly not used to from anyone other than the late Jerome. Usually he is received with attention and respect, but now whenever he tries to speak to anyone in the Deliverance on the topic of Tatiana, he’s met with exasperated, weary eyes and turned heads. Turned heads, as though they are afraid to meet his face, like they don’t want to see the desperation and fear that rests there. Like they don’t want to be discomforted by his agony.

“There is something different about Tatiana,” he says in a war council. There are people gathered around the table: Alm, Mathilda, Lukas, Forsyth, Clair. They’re all looking at him with nervous expressions, and when he repeats more firmly, “There is something different,” they look to one another.

Alm starts with, “She was violent. She-”

Uncharacteristically, Zeke snarls, curls a fist, and bangs it against the table. Everyone in attendance jumps in their seats, warily holding their tongues. The tent is quiet, and there is a chill in the air. Despite the chill, however, Zeke cannot get the feeling of heat—that boiling, scalding heat—from the other night off of his mind. He can still see Tatiana illuminated in his mind, her hair blowing, her feet planted in the dirt, her clenched fist held in front of her while she boiled someone alive.

“Tatiana was frightened,” he defends. “Her mind- her mind is just _wrong._ You never knew Tatiana; admittedly and speaking from a place of love, she wasn’t the _sharpest_ tool in the shed, but she was clever! She knew how to think logically when she needed to, and when to use her emotions to make decisions. The Tatiana I encountered thought in a manner reminiscent to- to a child, I would say. Her thinking was choppy and overly-emotional. She went from a peaceful state of mind to pure rage in a matter of seconds.”

“Unsurprising.” Lukas, who has been mostly quiet, folds his hands in front of him. His expression, as always, is a little unreadable. Yet, Zeke thinks he can pick up traces of not sympathy, but pity, perhaps a little exasperation. “Witches, no matter how intelligent or clever they were in life, have their minds stripped down to their most simple forms. It is why most of them cannot even speak. Very few witches are sentient and aware of their surroundings, or able to even speak.”

“Even so, she was different. She had a sense of danger. I’ve never seen a witch with a concept of fear before.”

“It is odd,” Alm pipes up. At the head of the table, he looks a little like a boy playing pretend. He’s barely 18, still growing into himself. He’s slouched a little, anxiously weaving his fingers together, occasionally pulling at his hair. “I’ve never seen a witch feel fear either.”

“It’s why she attacked anyone who was hostile towards her. She was just practicing self-defense.” Zeke sits up straight and levels a glare at Lukas. “Something was different about her. She had emotions.”

Lukas opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get a word out, Clair pipes up from the other end of the table. Zeke looks down to her, finding her pale and exhausted, also slouched over in an extremely uncharacteristic way. Her elbows are on the table, her hands folded together, and she stares down at them as she mutters, “You want me to believe she still has her humanity when we still don’t know if Clive is going to make it?”

A silence blankets the tent. Alm and Lukas look at each other. Forsyth squirms, and next to him, Mathilda looks away with her chin against a fist. Zeke takes a breath and shuts his eyes, dismayed that he finds the memory of Tatiana skewering Sir Clive playing over and over again in his mind. He opens his eyes and looks back at Clair, who doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer. She looks glum and bitter, not in the mood for a confrontation.

“Sir Clive attempted to wound Tatiana. If someone was charging you, how would you react?”

She laughs bitterly. “I wouldn’t do something as boorish as put a hunk of ice through their chest. My lord brother was only trying to help you, General Ezekiel!”

Zeke scowls and slams his hand on the table, and raises his voice. “But alas, I didn’t need his paltry help! I was in no danger, and Sir Clive would be sitting at this table with us, had he not meddled in affairs that didn’t concern him!”

“Zeke,” Alm mumbles, but Clair reflects Zeke in the way she bangs her hands against the wood. The table is creaking now from the abuse.

“‘Didn’t concern him?’ _You_ are the one who is trying to make this blasted problem of yours everyone’s concern!”

“So, your esteemed lord brother’s solution to my problem was to _stab_ her while she was making progress with me?!”

“He thought you were in danger!”

“I clearly wasn’t!”

“Please, no fighting!” Forsyth implores, also standing. “There’s nothing worse than infighting, especially among those in power. Captain Mathilda, will you please-”

“I’m on Clair’s side,” Mathilda says. “Clive has been wounded and comatose for a week, all because of Tatiana. Mistake me not, Sir Ezekiel—I have great pity for your situation. But I do not know your partner, and I am in no position to forgive an absolute stranger for harming Clive.”

Zeke flounders, desperately looking for something to say that isn’t just him going in another circle. Forsyth and Alm have been quiet, Lukas factual, but Mathilda and Clair are raging on pure emotion alone. He feels he cannot sway them with any sense or emotion of his own, and doesn’t know what to do. His own heart is beating so fast, and he’s not sure of anything. His world has been totally flipped over. He’s so confused.

All he wants is to wake up in bed, for all of this to be a dream. He just wants to wake up with Tatiana’s arm slung over his chest while she keeps dozing. He just wants to not have this problem.

“Tatiana was such a kind girl. She never would have thought of harming Clive were she in her right mind. When I say she’s different, I don’t mean to say she’s exactly the way she was—I mean to say she’s just different from other witches.” Zeke swipes his tongue over his lips, feeling the sheer weight of everyone’s attention. “I think we can help her, somehow. If we just-”

“This is what I mean when I say you try to make this everyone’s concern,” Clair cuts in. “You never shut up about it! It’s always Tatiana, Tatiana, Tatiana, and quite frankly, I’m sick of all of our war councils being derailed by your incessant blabbering! I pity your situation, sir, but I pity my brother more and care more about bringing this war to an end.”

Something in Zeke snaps, so abruptly it surprises even him. He hisses and grips the edge of the table, stands so quickly his chair falls over, and everyone at the council recoils in preparation for his screaming match with Clair. He is prepared to scream at her, scold her for daring to raise her voice and disrespect her superior officer so. He’s prepared to put her in her place, so it surprises him when his voice comes out soft and low, of all things.

“Do you know what it is like,” Zeke begins, “to wake up and not know who you are?”

Another silence falls over them. Clair’s anger falls from her eyes, leaving her looking uncomfortable and confused.

“Do you know what it is like to wake up, not knowing who you are? You just washed up on some beach in the countryside of nowhere,” Zeke continues. He clenches the table edge so hard, he hears Mathilda murmur in protest of him possibly breaking it. “You wake up, and your mind is blank. You have no name, no job, no home, no family. You’re literally, in every sense of a word, nobody.”

“Zeke,” Alm starts, but seems to think better. He puts his hand in his lap and looks at the map on the table, quiet.

“You wake up like this, gripped with a fear unlike anything else. You hurt. Body and mind, both of them hurt. I woke up over two years ago, _just_ like that. I would be dead were it not for Tatiana.” Zeke hates that he feels a low burn behind his eyes. “Do you know what it’s like to wake up as a nobody, but to be lucky enough to find family and meaning?”

“I-” Clair looks down. “I don’t-”

“My point is that I don’t know who or what I am, from whence I came, or why I am who I am now. I just know that Tatiana is my only family in this world; she’s all that I have. So, forgive me, Lady Clair, if I don’t ‘shut up’ about the only thing I love being out there, suffering and struggling. Forgive me if I don’t ‘shut up’ about the love of my life facing a fate worse than death because of me. Forgive me if I don’t ‘shut up’ about Tatiana; I care more about her than any damn problem this blasted hell continent faces, and so help me gods, I will watch the world _burn_ before I leave Tatiana to this. If this forsaken army chooses to turn its back on the one thing I care about, the emperor’s orders will be damned—I will abandon all of you and leave you to flail in the perils of Rigel on your own.”

Nobody speaks.

Slowly, Zeke sits back down. He takes one deep breath, exhales, and then takes another. Slowly, he reaches up and straightens his cravat and the collar of his coat, then folds his hands politely on the table. He shuts his eyes and inclines his head slightly. “I am not asking this army to devote all of its time and resources to finding a solution to one man’s problem. I am asking for support when I need it; I’m asking for you to not give up on Tatiana either. Please, have sympathy for her… Her mind is broken and confused. Yet, I believe that she is still in there, somewhere; her behavior proves that to me.”

Nobody speaks for a long, long time. It seems quiet outside the tent as well, and Zeke has to wonder if bystanders heard his and Clair’s outbursts.

“Her behavior is, indeed, odd,” Lukas relents after a long, long while. “Back in that village, we heard that she had not made a single aggressive move towards the people. Further, the only people she harmed in the battle were those that came close to her; she did not seek out people to injure.”

“Precisely my thoughts,” Zeke agrees. “I imagine the lot of you have fought more witches than I myself have. They are aggressive and cruel, are they not?”

Mathilda speaks up then, saying, “Very much so. They’re unceasingly loyal to their masters as well, and, well-”

“She boiled her ‘master’ to a soggy crisp,” Clair mumbles. “That certainly… isn’t normal. I will grant that fact.”

“Lady Clair,” Zeke says, “I do understand your animosity. You love your brother, and she harmed him. But, I promise, if we free her, you will see that she’s gentle and kind. If Sir Clive is not better at that point, she may even be able to do something for him.”

“I-” Clair reaches up and tugs at an end of her hair, staring intently at the wood of the table. “General, it is not that I believe your lover is a bad person. I did not mean to imply that I think she would hurt Clive in the same way, were she herself. After such an act of violence, I simply wonder: Is she able to be freed?”

The statement is something that Zeke has thought about, quietly mulling it over while lying on his cot by himself. Something that he has turned over in his mind while staring at the ceiling of his tent, and something that has caused him much anxiety. To hear it voiced by another person, however, chills him, and his fingers twitch. Clair says it in such a firm, strong way, with her jaw clenched tight and gaze leveled at him. He opens his mouth to say something in reply, but Lukas beats him to the chase.

“Nuibaba was not a member of the Duma Faithful. The story goes that she was granted her powers not by Duma, but by a demon by the name of Medusa.” Lukas holds out a hand peacefully and politely as he explains, as though he’s lecturing a room of academics. “She only recently allied herself with the Faithful, likely for the reason of having a better chance to encounter her target, Alm, in peace. Her sacrifices were all made to herself and Medusa, not Duma. My meaning here is that if, in theory, Miss Tatiana was Nuibaba’s first sacrifice to Duma, it is in the realm of possibility that something went wrong.”

Horribly, horribly wrong, Zeke thinks.

“It’s a… solid theory,” Forsyth says immediately. “We have no way of knowing for certain Nuibaba’s exact history of who, why, and when, when it comes to her sacrifices, much less who she sacrificed them to, but the theory makes sense. To me, at least.”

“It makes sense to me too, I think,” Alm agrees. “But what does that-”

“Why do you think that means that Tatiana cannot be helped?” Zeke asks.

Lukas hums, quietly resting his chin against his thumb and a curled pointer finger. “I suppose I mean to say that, even if she botched whatever sacrificial ceremony she used, Miss Tatiana is still… gone. Vital bits and pieces would still be missing. Even if it does a subpar job, a dull knife will still cut, will it not?”

Zeke feels very, very cold. He does not like the looks of pity that Mathilda and Forsyth are giving him.

“I would be glad to help a good man such as yourself, General Ezekiel,” Lukas continues. “I will not give up on you nor your desires. My concern is simply that I don’t know if there is anything that can be done. I will do what I can to help, but I do also believe she is beyond saving. I simply cannot see how one can straddle the line between humanity and witchdom.”

“It doesn’t-” His mouth is dry; Zeke licks his lips quickly. “It doesn’t make sense to me either, in truth. But even if it does not make sense, I do not want to give up. I won’t give up on Tatiana. If I do not have her, I do not have anything.”

“We won’t give up.” Zeke looks up at Alm, who looks a little nervous to be speaking, despite his position at the head of the table. The boy swallows and visibly steels himself. “I’m with Lukas. I think she’s beyond any kind of help, but you’re doing so much to help us, with almost no benefit to yourself. It would be against all of my morals if I didn’t try to help you, no matter what my personal feelings are.”

“We will all do what we can, provided it doesn’t get in the way of the larger picture,” Mathilda says. She meets Zeke’s eyes, and he finds a cold, chilly look within them. “But I agree. It will likely not be much. You’re going to have to accept that one day, likely soon.”

He takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and nods. Only two or so months ago, he was prepared to strike down all of these Zofians, and now he is crawling to them for help. He feels perhaps a little ashamed to be begging them this way, but what choice does he have? He’s meant to be here, according to the orders of the emperor. It’s not like he could go off on his own to find a way to help Tatiana. There had been a time, only a few days prior, where he’d thought about the Sage’s Hamlet Tatiana told him about a while ago, where the head priest of the former Church of Rigel—the Faithful from before Jedah’s era—hides away. He had wondered if he could help Tatiana.

Zeke reaches into his pocket and winds the red ribbon around his fingers. Even if he decided to leave and make his way there, Tatiana might not have enough time for him to trek across the entire expanse of Rigel to find Halcyon.

* * *

Jedah has never, ever seen a witch before who would slaughter her master, and it makes him more puzzled about this new witch than ever before. Hestia brought her back nearly two weeks ago, her arcanist handler not in sight, and it had only taken a little magic and prodding at her mind to discover she had killed him; very violently, at that. A little more prodding revealed that, instead of dealing with General Ezekiel, she had fawned and cooed over the bastard instead.

Jedah is concerned, but more so annoyed. The witch—Tatiana, she tells him whenever he speaks to her—hums and strolls around the cathedral freely, swinging her arms like a child. She sits in front of the stained glass scene of Father Duma striking down Zofia and Mila, a scrunch to her brow and crinkle to her nose. She chatters at anyone who will listen about everything and nothing. She’s nothing like the other dull, mindless witches who hover in the shadows, heads hung low as they wait for someone to give them an order. She’s not even like Marla and Hestia, who often sit in their quarters, idly passing the time with sewing and staring at nothing.

Something is wrong with Tatiana.

Hestia had brought her back, a shaking, quivering mess, mumbling the word “father” over and over again. She’d been wounded, though nothing beyond some scrapes and bruises that appeared self-inflicted. She’d been quiet and meek for a few days, and then one day seemed suddenly better, as though whatever had been bothering her had either disappeared from her mind, or the importance of it had waned. Jedah is leaning towards the former possibility.

Jedah’s suspicion regarding her behavior, now that he’s been observing her for a while, is that Nuibaba was simply incompetent. She must have done something wrong in the ceremony, because that’s the only reason he can think of as to why Tatiana is so… like this. Chattering, at the moment, to Marla and Hestia about how lovely her home is, how the sea is like a clear sheet of green glass, how it stretches on forever and ever and ever. He listens for just a little while, about how the sand is white and the water is cold.

He doesn’t know what Nuibaba did wrong, but it must have been quite the fatal error. Now, the stupid wretch is dead, and she has left them with something they cannot control.

Back in his chambers, Jedah paces a hole in the rug, wondering what to do about the problem. They could just kill her for certain, but that feels as though it would be a waste. That master of hers who met his end was certainly no slouch, and for her to have disposed of him so quickly and easily impresses him. She has power for certain, perhaps even surpassing Marla and Hestia. Her control on it clearly less masterful, but much more raw and potent. He has no desire to waste that, if he can avoid it.

Jedah grumbles and sits on the edge of his bed, lightly scratching at his cheek with a long nail while he thinks. He could let the issue persist. He could wait and see if this little issue dies with time. Unlikely as it may be, these sparks of humanity could be “growing pains,” so to speak, and with some time, she will be as meek, demure, and obedient as any other witch. It would be a first, but then again, all of this situation seems to be just that.

He also throws around the idea of simply retrying the ceremony, but then grimaces. Offering Duma a soul for the second time is unheard of, and Jedah does not want to know what his master will think of it. He doesn’t really want to take his chances and figure it out. It would not be a full meal, and thus he might not even accept it. More cons than pros, he decides.

Lastly, he wonders if perhaps dealing with the source of her distraction will help ease some of the trouble. Already, Jedah has plans to deal with the traitor general using the girl. Perhaps he just needs to put them further into action, speed up the process. Less waiting for the general to get to them, more going to the general. If they kill Ezekiel, it could be that the remnants of Tatiana’s humanity will scatter. It’s a woefully dull, cheesy thought, but her lover could be keeping whatever is left in her soul tethered to her body.

Tatiana is where he left her, sitting on the floor, and talking with blank-faced Marla and Hestia. Though, while their faces are blank, he notices that they are leaned in every-so-slightly, with cocked heads and unblinking gazes. The newcomer is going on about something having to do with a church that he doesn’t really care to listen to. He approaches them quietly, hands looped behind his back, and the witches look up at him.

“Hello, Father,” Marla greets. “How nice it is to see you.”

Hestia lowers her head politely. “Father, greetings.”

Jedah nods to them, then looks to Tatiana. She has stopped chatting and is staring up at him from her place on the ground. The light filtering through the stained glass casts fragments of red and yellow on her lilac skin, and the glimmer of the light reflects in her pitch black eyes. The expression is so blank that even Jedah feels slightly uneasy, but then, her face breaks out into a smile.

“Hello,” she says. “What do you need?”

She responds well to kindness. Jedah grimaces, fights the feeling of disgust in his chest, and tries smiling. He notes that Marla and Hestia actually look bewildered, but pays them no mind. He uses his nicest voice and says, “I need to speak to you privately. Marla, Hestia, you must leave.”

His daughters start to stand, but just as they are getting to their knees, Tatiana protests, “You didn’t say please!”

Jedah freezes, staring down into her face, and then asks, “What?”

She appears distressed and points at Marla and Hestia. “You need to say, ‘Marla, Hestia, please leave.’ Otherwise, it’s not nice.”

“I won’t,” he replies flatly, a little smug at the way she seems to deflate. “Tatiana, Marla and Hestia are only objects. I don’t need to be kind to them. Just in the way that I don’t need to be kind to you, you see.”

Tatiana blinks, and as Marla and Hestia shuffle away, stands up. She comes only up to his chest, and gives off a pitiful, saddened air, like a forlorn child, as she looks up to him. “So if you don’t have to be nice to me, then I’m… also an object?”

Now she is getting it. Jedah grins and pats her on the head, hard enough that he hopes it hurts. “Yes, that is right. You are very lucky, because I’m choosing to be kind to you. If you keep being a good girl, you can keep being lucky.”

She looks a little thrown by this, then looks back to where Marla and Hestia disappeared to. She swallows and nods in understanding, remains silent, and waits.

“Now, Tatiana.” Jedah grits his teeth, then continues in his sugared voice. He once more pats her head, but digs his nails into her scalp. She squirms under the touch, but doesn’t move. “I understand your head hurt badly when you came back a couple of weeks ago. Isn’t that correct?”

Tatiana lunges at the opportunity to speak. She shakes her head, dislodging his grip, and nods. “Yeah! My head was pounding, and also my chest hurt really bad. It hurt so bad, I couldn’t focus on anything, and it didn’t stop hurting for a long time.”

“Mmhmm.” He puts his chin in a hand and nods sagely. “That must have been painful.”

“Yeah, I-”

“But, what if I told you that there’s a way to make it so that you don’t have to hurt that way ever again?”

Her eyes fly open wider than ever, and he sees her quiver with excitement. “There’s really a way to make it so my head doesn’t hurt again? Can you tell me, Father?”

She’s eager, and she’s willing. A smile curls on Jedah’s face, and he says, “That man you wanted to see. Do you know the one I’m talking about?”

It doesn’t take Tatiana any time to realize who he is talking about. Her frown deepens despite her excitement. “That one who- who protected me? But he also grabbed me… But he said he was sorry.”

“Bah!” Jedah waves a hand in dismissal. “‘Sorry,’ he says. He’s the one who keeps making you hurt.”

“O-oh?” She looks more uneasy now, and slowly, she takes a step back. The back of her heel hits the front of a stair, and though she stumbles, she stays upright. “He is? I- I think that makes sense. Yeah, it makes sense.”

“Yes, it does. When you got near him, you got that bad hurt in your head, and your chest felt heavy, right?” Jedah feels much the way he did, back in those dark times before Duma, when he had to talk Hestia or Marla or that _other one_ down from a tantrum with sugared, sickeningly soft words. “So he’s the problem.”

He sees her contemplating this. She stands in front of the stained glass, biting her lip, twisting her fingers together, and tapping her foot on the stone. She looks nervous and scared; it’s odd to see such a look on the face of a witch.

“That makes sense,” she repeats slowly. “So, what does-?”

“That means that, Tatiana, if you kill him, all that pain will go away, just like that!” He nods and attempts a smile again. “In fact, if you kill him and make him go away, I dare say you’ll feel quite good. Does that sound nice?”

There is a rush of emotions on Tatiana’s face that annoys Jedah. There is surprise, at first, and then fear, then anger, agony, apprehension, and finally, just some anxiety. She curls her fists and puts them at her side, and slowly, she nods and gives a weak mumble, a small, “Mmhmm. It does.”

Jedah smiles and pats her cheek, then turns, making to leave her on the steps to the altar. “Good.”

The air turns a few degrees colder as she says, “But I don’t wanna.”

Jedah freezes. His hand shakes, trembling in rage, and he slowly turns back around to look at her. Her black eyes are big, and she has a hand pressed to her chest as she looks pensively to the floor. She senses him listening and looks up, then tells him, “He protected me. Even if he makes my head hurt, I don’t want to hurt him. He- he’s nice, and he says nice things to me.”

For the first time in a long time, Jedah flounders. He hasn’t the faintest idea what to do with this comeback. Nobody has spoken back to him in a long, long, long time; especially not a mindless, empty puppet who should have no will of her own. She shouldn’t be able to say, “I don’t want to.”

“But you will do it,” he tells her. “Remember, we just established that you are an object. Objects do what they’re supposed to, don’t they?”

Tatiana recoils, and then balls up her fists and throws them at her sides. “I don’t like it when you call me that! And you shouldn’t call Marla and Hestia objects either. They’re really nice.”

Jedah clenches his jaw, and for a second, he sees red. For a second, he imagines cleanly taking her head off and being free of his little problem, and then he relaxes, as though picturing the violence has soothed him. He puts a firm note in his voice, telling her, “You’ll do it. It will make you feel all better.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” she insists again. “And I- I don’t want you to send anyone else to hurt him, either. He’s really nice.”

“Even though he grabbed you?”

She falters at this, then admits, “That wasn’t nice. I was only protecting myself from that bad man.”

Going in circles is exhausting him. “We have the Deliverance’s location. You will go there and kill him. I order you to.”

Tatiana huffs and stomps her foot on the ground. “I don’t _want_ to!”

This is too much for him. He’s the high priest. He shouldn’t be babysitting an unruly _thing._ So, he just supposes that, if she is acting like a child, he’ll have to discipline her like she actually is one.

Tatiana shrinks back as he stalks towards her, a sudden outburst of apologies pouring from her lips (“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t hit me I’m sorry PLEASE-”), and then a sharp crack echoes through the room. Her head snaps to the side as he brings his palm across her cheek, and she stumbles as she falls back against the stairs. She lies there, shaking, turned from him, concealed by her mane of hair. Her quivering fingers are pressed lightly against the offended area. Her gown floods over the steps, the black fabric pooling like liquid.

“Bad,” Jedah scolds, because it’s all he can think to say. “Insufferable moron! You do as you’re told, or worse will come to you.”

Slightly, she turns her head towards him, and he sees her mouth a word.

He rounds on her, open palm raised in warning. “Oh, speak up if you have something else to say, you brat! Go on, give me more reason to hit you.”

Tatiana turns her head towards him again, and Jedah almost reels back. The look in her eyes is sharp and bright, and he swears that the inky black has faded into a more gray color, and her pupils are tinged green. She’s holding her cheek, and slowly, she shakes her head as she says, “That man- When I was little- He hit- hit me- My… father?”

Dumbfounded, Jedah stares down at her, and she stares right back up at him, looking far too human and aware for his tastes. Trembling, she bites her lip and looks away again, and quietly asks, “If I’m good and kill the man, will you- will you not hit me again?”

Jedah presses his lips and lowers his hand, only giving one nod in response.

“Okay.” Tatiana plants both hands against the cold stone stair, exhaling shakily before repeating it once more. She curls up a little, putting her forehead on the stone. “I’ll do as you say.”

Her voice is a little lower, softer, with less of a childish ring and more of a wary and mature undertone. Jedah stares at her, mumbles, “Good,” and walks away, fist clenched, wondering what exactly just happened and what she was blathering about. Whatever it was, it must have shaken her, because she is still curled up on the stairs three hours later, mouthing something to herself.

Pathetic.


End file.
